GIFT  OF 
JEROME  B.  LANDPIEJUD 


jteza-  P.  M.  Ostrobramska 
modi  si     za  jiami. 


OUR    LADY   OF   VILNA. 


MY    SLAV   FRIENDS 


BY 

ROTHAY    REYNOLDS 

AUTHOR   OF 
UMY    RUSSIAN   YEAR,"  "THE   GONDOLA,"   ETC. 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 
1916 


M 


..      • 


POP'   ADDED 

RETAINED 


TO 

CORPORAL    H.  H.   MUNRO 

(22nd  Royal  Fusiliers) 
MY   DEAR     "SAKI," 

I  beg  you  to  accept  this  book 
in  gratitude  for  your  friendship,  in 
admiration  for  your  writings,  and 
in  reverence  for  the  patriotism  that 
has  made  you  exchange  a  tender 
and  a  witty  pen  for  the  bayonet. 

R.R. 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  jxzge 
OUR  LADY   OF  VILNA     .....       Frontispiece 

A  WEDDING   IN    OLDEN    TIMES            .....  7 

THE    REVOLUTION    IN    DRESS    .  .  .  .  .  .27 

A  TSARITSA   OF    THE   END    OF   THE   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY  .  41 

THE   GATE   OF   THE   RESURRECTION   .....  66 

MAKING   THE    SAMOVAR    DRAW              .              .              .  80 

AN   OLD    BELIEVER            .......  IOI 

VERA      FEORDOROVNA       KOMMISARZHEVSKAYA       AS        SISTER 

BEATRICE       ........  112 

A  POPULAR   PICTURE    POST-CARD        .             .             .             .  137 

POLISH  PILGRIMS  TO   THE  SHRINE  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  CZENSTO- 

CHOWA            ........  l6l 

IN   POLAND               ........  179 

A   PEASANT   BOY  ........  191 

A   LITTLE    RUSSIAN            .......  212 

A     POLISH     STUDENT     LIBERATING     THE     WHITE     EAGLE     OF 

POLAND           ........  239 

JAN  AND  WANDA'S  HOME  TO-DAY   .          .         .         .          .  262 

JAN  AND  WANDA'S  PARISH  CHURCH  TO-DAY      .         .         .  296 


MY    SLAV    FRIENDS 


CHAPTER  I 

A  MAGNIFICENT  coach  was  whirled  into  a 
courtyard  of  the  Winter  Palace  by  four  horses 
with  postillions  in  the  imperial  livery.  It  came 
to  a  standstill  before  a  doorway,  near  which  I 
was  standing  with  a  few  other  correspondents  of 
foreign  newspapers,  who  were  enjoying  the  sun- 
shine of  a  May  morning,  before  going  into  the 
palace  to  see  a  sight  that  will  remain  memorable 
to  all  time  :  the  opening  of  the  first  Russian 
parliament  by  Nicholas  II. 

"  Autocracy  puts  a  brave  face  on  abdication 
in  favour  of  democracy/'  said  one  of  the  men, 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  carriage. 

An  officer  in  a  fine  uniform  and  an  ecclesiastic 
in  a  blue  cassock,  whom  I  assumed  to  be  the 
gentleman-in-waiting  and  the  chaplain  of  a  great 
personage,  were  seated  in  the  carriage  with  their 
backs  to  the  horses.  A  lacquey  opened  the  door 
of  the  coach,  and  the  officer  got  out  and  stood 
at  attention.  One  expected  to  see  an  exquisite 
woman,  a  Grand  Duchess  crowned  with  a  flaming 
kokoshnik  of  diamonds,  step  from  that  frivolous 
shrine  of  rosewood  and  lacquer  and  crystal  and 
red  brocade. 

B  I 


My  Slav  Friends 

The  chaplain  bent  forward,  perhaps  to  take  a 
fan  or  to  gather  up  the  train  of  an  imperial 
mantle. 

1  Voila  un  vrai  abbe  de  Tancien  regime/'  said 
the  correspondent  of  a  French  newspaper. 

And  then  I  moved  a  little  and  saw  that  the 
clergyman  was  alone  in  the  carriage  and  that 
he  was  taking  into  his  hands  a  large  picture, 
which  stood  upright  on  the  seat  of  honour.  He 
descended  from  the  coach  holding  the  picture, 
framed  in  jewels  that  sparkled  in  the  sunlight, 
before  his  breast.  It  was  an  icon  of  the  Sorrowful 
Face  of  Christ  crowned  with  thorns. 

"  Tiens  !  "  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Was  fur  ein  dummer  Streich  ist  das?  "  asked 
a  German. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  an  Englishman,  and 
in  a  sentence  of  academic  elegance  expressed  the 
opinion  that  freedom  could  not  flourish  on  a  soil 
impoverished  by  superstition. 

The  clergyman  passed  into  the  palace  with  his 
burden,  attended  by  the  officer.  And  the  coach 
of  the  icon  was  whirled  out  of  the  courtyard  by 
the  four  horses  with  postillions  in  the  imperial 
livery. 

I  had  seen  the  picture  before.  It  is  kept  in 
the  wooden  cottage  which  Peter  the  Great  built 
with  his  own  hands  and  made  his  home,  while 
he  watched  a  new  capital  rise  magically  from  the 
marshy  delta  of  the  Neva.  Anna  Ivanovna  took 
me  there  one  afternoon.  She  had  a  favour  to 
ask  of  Heaven  and  had  found  in  the  past  that 

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My   Slav  Friends 


she  prayed  well  before  the  picture  of  the  Sorrow- 
ful Face  of  Christ.  The  small  room,  in  which 
the  icon  stands,  was  crowded  with  worshippers 
and  perfumed  with  the  burning  wax  of  the  candles 
spiked  on  the  silver  stand  that  is  set  in  the  midst. 
Anna  Ivanovna  had  a  candle  she  had  bought  at 
the  door  set  up  on  the  stand  and  lit.  A  deacon 
in  a  silver  robe  chanted  prayers,  to  which  singers 
made  the  response  :  "  Lord,  have  Mercy."  Anna 
Ivanovna  crossed  herself.  She  stood,  looking  at 
the  Face  of  the  Saviour  through  the  golden  haze 
of  the  candle-light,  and  prayed.  The  service 
lasted  ten  minutes,  and  when  it  was  done  she 
went  with  the  rest  to  kiss  the  icon.  In  the 
passage  outside  a  number  of  people  were  waiting 
to  take  our  places  for  the  next  service.  Anna 
Ivanovna  was  silent  on  the  way  home,  and  I  was 
thinking  of  a  child-in-arms  whom  I  had  seen 
lifted  up  by  a  man  to  kiss  the  Sorrowful  Face. 
And  the  picture  the  child  had  kissed  was  beloved 
by  Peter  the  Great.  He  went  nowhere  without 
it.  When  he  travelled  in  foreign  parts  and  when 
he  went  to  the  \\ars,  he  took  the  icon  with  him. 
His  descendants  cherish  it  for  his  sake  and  for 
the  sake  of  Him  whose  likeness  it  bears. 

I  thought  of  these  things  when  I  saw  the  icon 
come  in  state  to  the  palace  and  when,  looking 
down  from  a  gallery  of  the  Hall  of  St.  George, 
where  the  members  of  the  Imperial  Duma  and 
the  Imperial  Council  stood  to  hear  the  speech 
from  the  throne,  I  saw  that  it  lay  on  a  lectern 
in  their  midst.  Anthony,  Metropolitan  of  Petro- 


My  Slav   Friends 

grad  and  Ladoga,  bowed  before  it  as  he  called 
down  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty  on  the  de- 
liberations of  the  untried  legislators.  A  cloud 
of  incense  from  the  golden  censer  in  his  hand 
enfolded  it  for  a  moment.  And  the  Tsar  did 
homage  to  the  similitude  of  the  Face  of  the 
Tsar  of  Tsars,  the  palladium  of  the  imperial 
house  as  well  as  the  consolation  and  inspiration 
of  the  multitude. 

It  was  fitting  that  the  icon,  beloved  by  Peter, 
should  grace  a  ceremony  in  which  Nicholas  II 
continued  the  work,  begun  by  his  great  ancestor, 
of  approximating  Russian  institutions  to  those 
of  Western  Europe.  It  was  fitting  that,  on  the 
threshold  of  a  new  era,  at  the  hour  in  which  the 
nation  turned  its  face  resolutely  to  the  light  of 
the  West,  its  representatives  should  be  reminded 
by  those  venerable  rites  their  forefathers  learnt 
from  the  Greeks  that  the  light  came  first  to 
Russia  out  of  the  East.  It  was  fitting  that  the 
best  men  of  the  Russian  empire,  as  the  Tsar 
called  them,  should  look  on  the  Sorrowful  Face 
of  Christ  and  remember  that  in  its  contempla- 
tion the  Russian  people  have  learned  to  prize 
self-sacrifice  above  all  other  virtues. 

These  reflections  might  be  developed  in  a 
treatise,  that  would  fill  a  bulky  volume,  of  the 
progress  of  Russia  from  the  accession  of  Peter 
the  Great  to  the  present  time,  in  a  lengthy  dis- 
cussion of  the  influence  of  the  Byzantine  empire 
on  Russian  civilization,  and  in  a  series  of  essays 
on  the  psychology  of  the  Russian  people.  My 

4 


My  Slav  Friends 

present  scheme  is  less  ambitious  than  these.  I 
am  going  to  write  of  people  I  have  met,  of  cities 
I  have  visited,  of  manor-houses  and  third-class 
railway-carriages,  of  shrines  and  play-houses,  of 
servant-girls  and  politicians  and  station-masters 
and  Polish  countesses,  of  Jews  and  priests  and 
dancing-girls  and  of  the  Queen  of  Poland,  of  the 
jumble  of  people  I  lingered  with,  or  jostled  against, 
in  going  up  and  down  the  Russian  empire.  And 
if  any  of  these  people  push  me  on  to  the  terrain 
of  the  historian  or  the  antiquary  or  the  mantua- 
maker  or  the  theologian,  I  shall  stay  as  long  as 
is  necessary  to  gather  up  the  spoil  I  need  for  my 
enterprise,  which  is  not  merely  to  present  my 
respectable  acquaintances  and  tag-rag  friends  from 
Russia  to  the  reader,  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
interest  or  entertain  him,  but  also  to  help  him  to 
understand  the  way  in  which  they  look  at  life 
and  to  account  to  him  for  their  behaviour.  And 
it  may  be  impossible  to  explain  the  attitude  of 
a  politician  without  animadverting  on  the  fur- 
belows women  wore  in  the  year  1700,  to  appraise 
the  art  of  an  actress  without  a  knowledge  of 
theology,  or  to  understand  the  conduct  of .  a 
peasant  without  referring  to  the  history  of  Leo 
the  Isaurian.  How  can  I  explain  why  Roman 
Dmowski,  most  eminent  politician  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Poland,  always  uses  Atkinson's  eau-de-Cologne 
and  eschews  the  essence  distilled  by  Jean  Maria 
Farina,  if  I  neglect  the  history  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Sword  and  the  proceedings  of  the  Prussian 
Diet  ?  To  account  for  his  preference  I  may  have 

5 


My  Slav  Friends 


to  whirl  the  reader  out  of  Russia  on  a  visit  to 
Poznan. 

"  We  have  the  genius  of  all  the  other  nations 
and  also  the  Russian  genius/'  said  Dostoievsky 
proudly  to  a  Frenchman;  '  hence  we  can  under- 
stand you  and  you  cannot  understand  us/' 

Although  the  novelist's  opinion  may  afford 
insufficient  reason  to  refuse  the  task  I  have  set 
myself,  it  may,  at  any  rate,  serve  as  an  excuse 
for  excursions  down  any  pathways  in  which 
material  suitable  to  its  performance  may  be  found. 
It  will  make  a  reference  to  the  second  Council 
of  Nicaea  or  to  the  hymn-singing  of  Methodists 
pardonable  when  I  treat  of  holy  pictures,  beloved 
by  my  Slav  friends,  whether  they  be  pictures 
adorned  with  precious  stones  or  oleographs  in 
the  corners  of  peasants'  houses,  Latin  pictures 
above  the  gates  of  Polish  cities  or  Greek  pictures 
that  ride  in  coaches  with  four  horses  and  postil- 
lions in  the  imperial  livery.  For  the  present  I 
beg  the  reader  to  reserve  his  judgment  on  the 
strange  apparition  of  the  icon  of  the  Sorrowful 
Face  of  Christ  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Winter 
Palace,  and  to  bear  in  mind  that  whether  I  take 
him  to  a  parliament-house  or  down  a  street,  into 
the  boudoir  of  an  actress  or  a  railway-station, 
into  a  drawing-room  or  a  tavern,  there  will  look 
down  on  us,  from  a  shining  icon,  a  Saint  or  the 
Virgin  or  the  Saviour  of  the  World. 


CHAPTER   II 

IVAN  I  VAN  ITCH  is  a  stout  and  elderly  man  who 
likes  a  drop  of  rum  in  his  tea.  He  is  all  for  reform 
in  the  State  and  the  maintenance  of  an  Estab- 
lished Church.  He  chaffs  every  young  man  he 
meets  about  the  wild  oats  he  assumes  him  to  be 
sowing,  and  he  does  not  permit  meat  to  be  served 
at  his  table  during  Lent.  His  wife  keeps  one 
servant,  and  neither  he  nor  she  can  speak  French. 
When  I  call  at  their  house,  Ivan  Ivanitch's  mother, 
an  aged  and  wrinkled  woman,  gets  out  of  her 
armchair  and  makes  me  a  low  bow ;  for,  like  her 
son,  she  is  old-fashioned. 

Nothing  is  more  talked  about  in  Ivan  Ivanitch's 
household  than  ecclesiastical  affairs.  He  can 
tell  one  in  which  churches  of  Petrograd  the 
deacons  have  the  most  sonorous  voices,  and  his 
attitude  towards  bishops  is  exceedingly  critical. 
I  have  even  heard  him  go  so  far  as  to  call  His 
Holiness  Kyril  by  the  disrespectful  diminutive 
Kyrilchick,  dear  little  Kyril,  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  the  bishop  chants  in  a  squeaky  falsetto 
voice. 

One  day  when  I  went  to  see  him,  Ivan  Ivanitch 
was  greatly  exercised  about  the  apparition  of 
the  Bishop  of  London  in  St.  Isaac's  cathedral. 
He  spoke  of  the  unparalleled  astonishment  of  the 

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My  Slav  Friends 

cathedral  clergy  when  that  prelate  stepped  out 
of  a  brougham  arrayed  in  a  golden  cope  and  a 
golden  mitre. 

"  Do  English  bishops  always  drive  about  like 
that?'  he  asked;  'because  ours  never  do/' 
And  then  he  burst  out  laughing. 

"  He  had  on  a  ring  !  "  he  said,  when  he  was 
able  to  speak,  and  shouted  with  laughter  again, 
as  if  an  episcopal  ring  was  the  most  ludicrous 
thing  in  the  world.  "  A  bishop  with  a  ring  !  " 
he  cried,  "  a  bishop  with  a  ring  !  "  and  lay  back 
in  .his  chair,  bubbling  over  with  merriment. 

Now  if  I  were  asked  to  explain  in  a  sentence 
why  Ivan  Ivanitch  was  so  vastly  amused  at  Dr. 
Winnington  Ingram's  ring,  I  should  feel  like  the 
German  philosopher  whom  Mme.  de  Stael  asked 
to  explain  his  system  of  philosophy  in  ten  minutes. 
Were  Ivan  Ivanitch  an  ignorant  man,  it  would 
be  easy  to  account  for  his  merriment  by  pointing 
out  that  it  was  of  the  same  order  as  the  merriment 
of  illiterate  persons  who  hear  a  conversation  in 
a  foreign  tongue  for  the  first  time.  But  Ivan 
Ivanitch  is  not  an  ignorant  man;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  has  received  a  good  middle-class  educa- 
tion and  is  an  accomplished  musician.  His 
laughter  was  an  echo  from  the  past,  and  his 
merriment  made  me  understand  that  there  are 
still  left  in  Russia  the  remains  of  that  spiritual 
barrier  that  the  Russians  erected  between  them- 
selves and  the  peoples  of  the  West,  formidable 
as  the  Great  Wall  of  China. 

I  have  already  warned  the  reader  that,  at  the 

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My   Slav   Friends 

slightest  provocation,  I  shall  dash  down  some 
byway  of  knowledge,  hoping  that  he  will  be  so 
agreeable  as  to  accompany  me.  To  explain  the 
behaviour  of  Ivan  Ivanitch  I  propose  to  take  a 
roundabout  route  through  Tchernigov  and  Hast- 
ings, Rheims  and  Rome,  Constantinople  and  Kiev; 
that  will  lead  us  into  the  realms  of  history  and 
even  of  theology.  And  should  this  enterprise 
seem  too  troublesome,  let  me  say  that,  without 
it,  not  only  will  it  be  impossible  to  understand 
why  Ivan  Ivanitch  thought  the  Bishop  of  London's 
ring  supremely  comical,  but  also  it  will  be  im- 
possible to  understand  a  dozen  other  Russian 
friends  I  am  about  to  present  and,  in  a  word, 
to  understand  Russia.  And  small  wonder  that 
Russia  remains  an  enigma  to  most  of  us;  for 
we  and  the  Russians  have  known  one  another 
a  very  little  while — to  be  precise,  three  hundred 
and  sixty-three  years.  Allow  me  without  further 
excuses  or  explanation  to  talk  about  a  Saxon 
princess  and  good  Queen  Anne,  about  the  im- 
portance of  yeast  and  the  importance  of  shaving 
and  other  equally  serious  matters,  and  have 
the  charity  to  assume  that  there  is  method  in 
what,  at  first  sight,  may  appear  to  be  madness. 

As  I  have  said,  we  have  known  each  other  a 
very  little  while,  we  and  the  Russians. 

They  say  that  Gytha,  daughter  of  King  Harold, 
who  was  slain  at  Hastings,  married  Vladimir, 
grandson  of  Yaroslav  the  Wise,  and  reigned  with 
him  in  Tchernigov.  She  was  young  when  she 
fled  from  Exeter  to  the  continent.  She  may  have 

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My  Slav  Friends 

forgotten  English  ways  at  St.  Omer  and  Bruges 
and  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  whence  she  came 
to  Russia.  But  for  aught  I  know  she  may  have 
striven  to  give  a  Saxon  tone  to  her  Prince's  court 
and  protested  that  Byzantine  dresses  did  not 
become  her  beauty ;  yet  if  she  did,  I  think  Vladi- 
mir taught  her  docility,  for  he  was  a  masterful 
man  and  left  this  good  advice  to  his  sons  :  "  Love 
your  wives,  and  be  not  ruled  by  them." 

Idle  to  speculate  about  the  English  princess's 
great  adventure.  Did  it  bring  her  happiness? 
or  did  she  envy  the  lot  of  her  aunt,  who,  as  her 
epitaph  records,  "  desiring  spiritual  nuptials, 
spurned  marriage  with  several  noble  princes/' 
and  became  a  nun  at  Bruges  ?  Did  she  long  for 
the  scent  of  English  meadows  and  the  sound  of 
Latin  prayers?  Did  she  learn  to  love  plains 
that  are  covered  with  snow,  forests  in  which  are 
no  oak  trees,  and  Greek  pictures  of  the  Virgin, 
black  but  comely?  Did  she  tell  her  ladies  tales 
of  England,  and  teach  Mstislav,  her  son,  to  say 
Ave  Maria,  like  an  English  boy?  or  did  she  try 
to  forget  in  silence  the  land  she  had  left  in  sorrow- 
fulness? Did  she  live  to  see  her  son  Prince  of 
Novgorod  the  Great  and  to  reign  with  her  husband 
in  golden-throned  Kiev,  Mother  of  all  Russian 
cities,  clarissimum  decus  Greed CB  ?  I  cannot 
answer.  The  Russian  chroniclers  make  no  men- 
tion of  the  English  princess  who  came  to  Tcherni- 
gov,  and  all  that  Karamzin,  greatest  of  Russian 
historians,  can  tell  us  about  her  marriage  he  learnt 
from  Danish  and  Norse  chronicles. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

Gida  Garoldovna,  Gytha,  daughter  of  Harold, 
is  lost  in  the  pale  mists  of  the  Russian  land ;  and 
no  memorial  of  her  remains  save  the  legend  of  her 
coming,  frail  link  between  England  and  Russia. 
The  English  princess  vanishes  and  a  curtain  falls 
between  Russia  and  the  West,  that  no  wayfarer 
from  England  shall  draw  aside  until  five  centuries 
have  passed.  Nothing  in  history  more  amazing 
or  more  lamentable. 

Russia  holds  intercourse  with  all  Christendom. 
The  descendants  of  the  Norse  freebooter,  who  set 
up  his  rule  in  Rus,  have  prospered.  They  are 
admitted  to  the  fellowship  of  kings.  The  Queen 
of  Hungary,  the  Queen  of  Norway,  the  Queen  of 
France,  are  princesses  of  Kiev,  aunts  of  the 
husband  of  Gytha,  daughters  of  Yaroslav  the 
Wise.  The  brothers  of  the  three  Queens  are 
married  to  daughters  of  German  princes,  of  the 
King  of  Poland,  of  the  Emperor  Constantine. 
Foreigners  are  welcomed  in  Kiev.  Merchants 
of  Flanders  and  Germany,  of  Hungary  and  Scan- 
dinavia, trade  in  its  marts.  All  roads  lead  to 
Kiev,  says  the  proverb.  Envoys  of  the  Popes 
arrive  from  Rome  with  relics  for  churches,  which 
Greek  artists  are  ornamenting  with  mosaics  that 
still  adorn  them  and  are  as  fair  as  those  made 
for  the  Venetians.  In  1048  the  citizens  see  three 
French  bishops,  Gautier  de  Meaux,  Goscelin  de 
Chalignac,  Roger  de  Chalons,  pass  through  the 
streets  to  the  palace  of  Yaroslav,  ambassadors 
come  to  pray  the  Grand  Prince  to  give  his  daughter 
Anna  in  marriage  to  the  King  of  France.  The 

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My   Slav   Friends 

propriety  of  a  marriage  between  a  Russian  prin- 
cess and  a  Latin  prince  is  not  called  in  question. 
The  consent  of  the  Grand  Prince  to  the  match 
is  gained,  and  the  people  of  Kiev  bid  godspeed  to 
Anna  Yaroslavna,  when  she  sets  out  on  the  perilous 
journey  to  the  West.  And  la  bonne  et  religieuse 
Anne,  to  use  the  language  of  French  chroniclers, 
was  anointed  and  crowned  Queen  of  France  in 
the  cathedral  of  Rheims.  Six  hundred  years 
later  they  will  gravely  discuss  in  Moscow  the 
advisability  of  putting  to  death  a  Russian  guilty 
of  visiting  foreign  parts. 

The  Russian  princess  goes  to  France.  The 
English  princess  comes  to  Russia.  Then,  as  I 
have  said,  a  curtain  falls  between  the  Russian 
land  and  Western  Europe.  The  brilliant  years, 
in  which  Russia  held  intercourse  with  all  Chris- 
tendom, are  ended.  Quickly  the  Russian  people 
pile  up  barriers,  that  are  almost  insurmountable, 
between  themselves  and  the  friends  of  yesterday, 
quickly  vanish  the  hopes  of  lasting  amity  that 
royal  marriages  have  given,  quickly  the  holy 
Russian  land  is  hidden  from  Western  eyes  and 
quickly  forgotten. 

When  Zoe,  niece  of  the  last  Byzantine  emperor, 
passed  through  Germany  in  1472,  on  the  way 
from  Rome  to  Moscow  for  her  marriage  with 
Ivan  III,  she  was  magnificently  entertained  in 
Nuremberg;  but  the  burghers  did  not  know 
what  manner  of  man  her  future  husband  might 
be,  and  were  not  certain  that  he  was  not  a  pagan. 
They  told  one  another  vaguely  that  he  was  a 

12 


My  Slav  Friends 

powerful  sovereign,  whose  realm  was  somewhere 
beyond  Novgorod;  and  the  chroniclers  of  the 
city  recorded  their  belief  that  the  Papal  Legate, 
who  accompanied  the  Princess,  was  going  to  that 
distant  land  to  preach  the  Christian  faith  to  its 
inhabitants.  As  for  the  English  of  that  age  : 
they  knew  more  about  the  Man  in  the  Moon  than 
they  did  about  the  Grand  Prince  of  Moscow. 

What  feud  of  kings,  what  rivalry  in  the  posses- 
sion of  coveted  territory,  what  eruption  of  national 
passion,  what  clash  of  arms  drove  the  Russian 
people  from  the  comity  of  European  nations? 
None  of  these  things.  It  was  a  spiritual,  not  a 
temporal,  catastrophe  which  destroyed  the  union 
of  Russia  and  the  West  :  the  schism  in  the  Chris- 
tian Church  that  followed  the  excommunication 
of  Michael  Cerularius,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople, 
by  Rome  in  1054.  The  services  in  the  churches 
of  Kiev,  like  those  in  the  churches  of  Constanti- 
nople, were  more  elaborate  and  richer  in  liturgical 
eloquence  than  those  of  Canterbury  or  Rome; 
but  the  faith  of  Russians  and  Greeks  and  English 
and  Romans  was  identical.  They  were  all  mem- 
bers of  an  international  society  over  which  the 
successors  of  the  Fisherman  presided.  Papal 
Legates  presided  at  councils  of  Greek  bishops  in 
Constantinople.  Greek  monks  established  them- 
selves in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome  and  enjoyed 
the  special  favour  of  the  Popes.  The  quarrel 
that  Michael  Cerularius  picked  with  Rome 
rent  Christendom  in  twain ;  and  the  English 
and  Russians  found  themselves,  willy-nilly,  in 

13 


My  Slav   Friends 

opposing  camps,  like  soldiers  who  fight  for  their 
princes  without  understanding  the  causes  of  their 
feuds.  And  that  quarrel,  which  involved  no 
dispute  about  doctrines  until  a  schism  had  been 
made  and  Constantinople  required  excuses  for 
maintaining  it,  not  only  marred  the  unity  of 
Christendom,  but  was  the  main  factor  in  the 
separation  of  the  Russian  people  from  the  nations 
of  the  West. 

Many  years  elapsed  before  the  Russian  legions 
were  ranged  against  the  Papacy.  Some  twenty 
years  after  the  excommunication  of  the  Patriarch 
of  Constantinople,  the  brother  of  the  Russian 
Queen  of  France  placed  the  principality  of  Kiev 
under  the  protection  of  Pope  Gregory  VII,  and 
sought  his  help  in  a  dispute  about  the  possession 
of  the  throne.  What  concern  was  it  of  his  that 
a  prelate  living  in  Constantinople  was  under  the 
ban  of  Rome?  But  the  Russians  found  that 
they  could  not  stand  aside.  The  Church  of 
Kiev  was  the  daughter  of  Constantinople.  The 
Russian  Metropolitan  and  chief  bishop  was  con- 
secrated by  the  Byzantine  Patriarch.  Many  of 
the  bishops  were  Greeks,  and  they  forced  the 
Russian  people  to  place  themselves  on  the  side 
of  Constantinople.  They  taught  their  flocks, 
who  looked  to  them  for  spiritual  guidance  and 
intellectual  enlightenment,  to  regard  the  religious 
practices  of  the  West  with  horror.  It  was  due 
to  them  that  the  Russians  learnt  to  consider  any 
Latin,  any  Frenchman  or  Englishman  or  German 
or  Swede,  as  a  wicked  and  detestable  Azymite— 


My  Slav  Friends 

that  is  to  say,  a  person  who  worshipped  in  churches 
where  azyme,  unleavened  bread,  was  used  at  the 
altar,  a  practice  which  was  a  horrible  infirmity, 
a  Jewish  superstition — I  am  using  the  contro- 
versial expressions  of  Constantinople — and  totally 
unchristian.  Moreover,  the  Azymites  were  often 
guilty  of  another  monstrous  crime  :  they  fasted 
judaistically  on  Saturdays.  These  men  were, 
as  a  Greek  bishop  pointed  out  in  the  words  of 
the  Apostle  Paul  :  dogs,  bad  workmen,  schisma- 
tics, and  also  hypocrites  and  liars.  What  decent 
and  God-fearing  man  could  have  dealings  with 
such  people?  Let  no  Azymite  princess  become 
the  bride  of  a  Russian  prince.  Let  no  Russian 
princess  imperil  her  soul  by  marriage  with  a 
Latin.  Let  Orthodox  men  and  women  avoid 
intercourse  with  those  who  have  corrupted  the 
pure  Gospel  with  their  detestable  azyme.  The 
Popes  said  they  did  not  care  what  sort  of  bread 
was  used  at  the  altar.  They  used  unleavened 
bread  and  saw  no  reason  to  change  their  custom; 
the  Greek  monks  in  the  diocese  of  Rome  used 
leavened  bread.  What  did  it  matter?  In  the 
view  of  the  Greeks  the  frivolity  of  such  indiffer- 
ence was  the  final  and  irrefutable  proof  of  the 
apostasy  of  the  West.  Let  the  Azymites  consume 
a  sacrament  which  was  no  more  than  dry  mud ; 
and  let  the  Orthodox  keep  themselves  unspotted 
by  eschewing  their  society. 

With  the  passage  of  the  years  these  sentiments 
deepened.  "  If  a  Latin  asks  you  for  food  and 
drink,"  wrote  a  Russian  of  the  fourteenth  century, 

15 


My   Slav   Friends 

"  give  to  him,  because  charity  requires  you  to 
do  so;  but  when  he  has  partaken,  smash  the 
vessels  from  which  he  has  eaten  and  drunk,  lest 
you  be  contaminated."  In  Moscow,  the  third 
Rome,  they  looked  with  suspicion  on  the  people 
of  the  Republic  of  Novgorod,  because  they  har- 
boured German  and  Swedish  traders  within  the 
walls  of  their  city.  The  use  of  azyme  was  found 
to  be  not  the  only  iniquity  of  the  Latins.  The 
abandoned  bishops  of  the  West  wore  rings  on 
their  fingers.  And  they  impiously  shaved  off 
their  beards,  thus  destroying  the  image  of  God 
in  man;  for  everybody  who  had  seen  an  icon 
of  the  Trinity  knew  that  the  Eternal  had  a 
beard. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  civil  wars  of  the 
Russian  princes  and  the  invasion  of  the  Mongols, 
who  dominated  over  the  Russians  and  their  rulers 
for  two  and  a  half  centuries,  were  the  causes  of 
the  isolation  of  Russia.  This  is  not  true.  These 
calamities  deterred  foreigners  from  coming  to 
Russia,  but  they  did  not,  and  could  not,  create 
in  the  minds  of  the  Russian  people  the  idea  that 
the  West  was  unclean  and  that  contact  with 
Latins  was  criminal.  The  barrier  between  Russia 
and  the  West  was  erected  by  the  Russians  them- 
selves, and  it  was  formed  of  yeast  and  bishops' 
rings  and  the  abominable  razors  of  Latin  priests. 

That  wall  is  razed  now,  but  I  have  succeeded 
in  tracing  its  remains,  which  are  not  wanting  in 
interest.  There  was  Ivan  Ivanitch,  most  ortho- 
dox, most  pious  Ivan  Ivanitch,  who  likes  a  drop 

16 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  rum  in  his  tea.  I  beg  pardon  :  you  know  all 
about  Ivan  Ivanitch  and  the  Bishop  of  London's 
ring,  unless,  like  me,  you  have  almost  forgotten 
his  singular  behaviour  in  the  course  of  a  discus- 
sion which  set  out  with  a  promise  to  explain 
it.  His  attitude  to  that  ring  was  not  due,  as 
I  pointed  out,  to  ignorance;  it  was  due  to 
prejudices  rooted  in  the  history  of  his  race. 

I  was  relieved  to  find  that  Ivan  Ivanitch  did 
not  consider  the  bishop  was  sinful;  he  merely 
considered  him  frivolous.  But  there  are  people 
in  Russia  who  would  hold  that  that  ring  was  the 
mark  of  the  celebrated  and  abominable  Beast 
of  the  Book  of  the  Revelation,  and  there  are 
plenty  of  sober-minded  persons  who  consider  that 
shaving  is  wicked.  A  few  years  ago  a  council 
of  Old  Believers  discussed  the  propriety  of  ex- 
communicating persons  who  had  been  infected 
with  ideas  of  the  West  and  had  shaved  off  their 
beards.  And  there  is  still  a  faithful  remnant 
of  dissenters  who  refuse  to  use  cups  and  platters 
from  which  members  of  the  Established  Church 
have  drunk  and  eaten,  desiring  to  avoid  the  con- 
tamination of  persons  whose  practices  and  beliefs 
are  tainted  with  the  virus  of  the  apostate  West, 
coffee-drinkers,  tea-drinkers,  smokers  of  tobacco, 
bread-worshippers,  seduced  by  Aristotle  and  the 
Pope  of  Rome.  And  the  religious  aspect  of 
yeast  remains  a  living  question.  The  Patriarch 
of  Constantinople,  a  personage  entitled  to  speak 
for  Russians  and  Greeks  alike,  was  at  the  pains 
to  assure  Leo  XIII  that  Latin  azyme  remained 
c  17 


My  Slav  Friends 

a   bar   to   the   ecclesiastical   unity   of   East   and 
West. 

"  I  hope  to  see  the  Anglican  and  Russian 
Churches  united/'  said  an  eminent  Russian 
architect  to  me,  "  because  they  both  celebrate  the 
Eucharist  in  the  same  way." 

He  was  spirited  away  from  me  before  I  had 
time  to  ask  him  to  explain  what  he  meant.  His 
statement  required  elucidation;  for  the  contrast 
between  the  simplicity  of  Anglican  worship  and 
the  intricacy  of  Russian  is  remarkable.  A  pious 
friend  gave  me  the  explanation  I  required. 

"  The  English  clergy  use  leavened  bread  at 
the  altar  as  we  do/'  he  said. 

I  saw  the  shades  of  Michael  Cerularius  and 
Cranmer  embrace.  Go  abroad  to  learn  the 
grandeur  of  the  British  nation.  The  simple 
words  of  the  Russian  made  me  realize  that  the 
master-stroke  of  the  English  Reformers  was  to 
rid  our  land  of  the  poison  of  the  accursed  azyme, 
that  still  pollutes  France  and  Poland  and  Spain. 
The  compilers  of  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer 
plucked  an  olive  branch  for  the  Muscovites.  Was 
Parker  influenced  by  the  opinions  of  Leo  of 
Achrida,  dauntless  foe  of  Azymites?  Did  far- 
sighted  Elizabeth  understand  that  the  extirpation 
of  azyme  would  strengthen  the  commercial  rela- 
tions of  the  British  with  the  subjects  of  Ivan  the 
Terrible?  Was  Peter  the  Great  a  mere  flatterer 
when  he  stated  in  London  that  the  Princess  Anne 
was  a  true  daughter  of  the  Orthodox  Church? 
or  did  he  desire  to  imply  that  the  future  Queen 

18 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  England  was  no  more  azymitic  than  a  princess 
of  Muscovy?  I  confess  that  I  have  neither  the 
inclination  nor  the  ability  to  solve  these  grave 
problems,  which  I  commend  to  the  attention  of 
those  societies  existing  for  the  purpose  of  uniting 
the  Churches  of  Canterbury  and  Moscow.  What- 
ever the  result  of  their  investigations  may  be,  one 
glorious  fact  remains  as  a  basis  for  ecclesiastical 
negotiations  :  the  English  are  no  Azymites. 

In  Petrograd  I  heard  a  Pan-Slav  orator,  dressed 
by  a  London  tailor  and  manicured  by  a  French 
demoiselle,  denounce  most  of  the  countries  of 
Christendom  and  proclaim  that  the  mission  of 
the  Russian  people  was  to  bring  the  light  of  the 
gospel  and  of  truth  to  the  nations  sitting  in  the 
darkness  of  the  West.  The  applause  with  which 
these  sentiments  were  received  made  it  clear  to 
me  that  the  proud  spirit  of  ancient  Muscovy  is 
not  dead  and  that  there  are  still  men  who  hold, 
as  their  ancestors  did,  that  Divine  Providence 
has  made  Russia  the  chief  depositary  of  apostolic 
doctrine  and  practice,  defiled  and  outraged  by 
Catholics  and  Protestants  alike,  conserved  pure  and 
incorruptible  in  the  formularies  and  ceremonies 
of  Orthodoxy. 

So  much  for  the  reliques  of  the  great  wall. 
How  did  the  English  make  a  breach  in  it  ? 

Es  ist  eine  alte  Geschichte, 
Doch  ist  est  immer  treu; 

and  I  am  going  to  tell  the  tale  again ;   for  I  have 
not   infrequently   met    Englishmen   who   do   not 

19 


My  Slav   Friends 

know  it  and  I  wish  to  give  myself  the  happiness 
of  celebrating  a  glorious  achievement  of  our  race. 
Richard   Chancellor   discovered   Russia  in  the 
year  1553.     And  when  I  say  that  he  discovered 
Russia,  I  do  not  employ  the  expression  for  effect 
or  because  it  sounds  startling,  but  do  no  more 
than  use  the  language   of  our  forefathers.     An 
Elizabethan  speaks  of  Chancellor's  adventure  as 
"  the  strange  and  wonderf ull  discouerie  of  Russia/' 
and   places    the    English    seaman's    achievement 
on  an  equality  with  that  of  the   foreigners  who 
"  discouered  lands  so  many  hundred  miles  west- 
ward and  southward  of  the  streits  of  Gibraltar 
and  of  the  pillars  of  Hercules."     And  this  six- 
teenth-century comparison  of  Richard  Chancellor's 
discovery    with    that    of    Christopher    Columbus 
justifies  the  statement  made  earlier  in  this  chapter : 
we  have  known  each  other  a  very  little  while, 
we  and   the  Russians.     We  are  only  just  begin- 
ning to  understand  the  French,  whom  we  have 
known  from  the  earliest  times  of  our  existence 
as   a   nation,    whose   blood   flows   in    our  veins, 
whose   words   jostle    the    words    of    our    Saxon 
forefathers  in  the  speech  of  our  rustics.     Is  it 
surprising  that  we  and  the  Russians  should  some- 
times find  it  difficult  to  understand  one  another  ? 
But  to  my  tale.     It  was  in  the  late  spring  of  the 
last  year  of  the  reign  of  King  Edward  VI  that 
three  ships  set  sail  from  Harwich  on  a  voyage  of 
discovery,  the  fleet  of  "  the  Mysterie  and  Companie 
of  the  Marchants  adventurers  for  the  discouerie 
of  Regiones,  Dominions,  Islands  and  places  un- 

20 


My  Slav  Friends 

known."  The  commanders  of  the  three  ships, 
Sir  Hugh  Willoughby,  Cornelius  Durforth  and 
Richard  Chancellor,  had  been  instructed  by  the 
Mysterie,  acting  on  the  advice  of  the  Venetian, 
Sebastian  Cabot,  to  sail  north  by  the  Arctic  seas 
in  the  hope  of  discovering  a  passage  to  India  and 
Cathay.  Chancellor's  ship,  the  Edward  Bonaven- 
ture,  arrived  safely  in  the  port  of  Vardo,  on  the 
extreme  north  of  Norway,  where  the  three  cap- 
tains had  agreed  to  meet.  A  tempest  had  driven 
the  other  two  ships  far  on  the  unknown  seas, 
where,  as  was  discovered  when  they  were  found 
after  many  weeks  adrift,  their  crews  perished 
of  cold  and  hunger.  After  waiting  for  several 
days,  Chancellor  set  sail  again  and  "  helde  on 
his  course  towardes  that  unknown  part  of  the 
world,  and  sailed  so  farre  that  hee  came  at  last 
to  the  place  where  he  found  no  night  at  all,  but 
a  continuall  light  and  brightness  of  the  Sunne 
shining  clearly  vpon  the  huge  and  mighty  Sea." 
At  the  end  of  August  the  Edward  Bonaventure 
sailed  into  the  White  Sea  and  the  mariners  landed 
on  the  shores  of  Muscovy;  a  memorable  event, 
for  no  English  feet  had  trod  the  ground  of  the 
holy  Russian  land  since  Gytha  married  the  grand- 
son of  Yaroslav  the  Wise.  It  is  true  that  Chaucer 
made  his  English  knight  go  to  Russia;  but  I 
suspect  him  of  doing  so  for  the  sake  of  a  rhyme — 

At  Alisandre  hee  was,  when  it  was  wonne, 
full  oft  time  hee  had  the  bourd  begon 
abower  all  nations  in  Pruce, 
In  Lettowe  hath  he  riden,  &  in  Ruce. 

21 


My  Slav   Friends 

That  the  knight  went  into  Lithuania  I  will  admit, 
for  the  Earl  of  Derby,  afterwards  King  Henry  IV, 
fought  side  by  side  with  Teutonic  knights  against 
the  Lithuanians  and  entered  the  city  of  Vilna 
as  a  conqueror;  but  the  name  of  no  Englishman 
has  come  down  to  us  who  visited  Russia  between 
the  middle  of  the  eleventh  and  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  centuries.  But  is  it  not  possible  that 
some  Englishman  went  to  Russia  in  the  middle 
ages  ?  Of  course  it  is,  but  I  refuse,  on  a  supposi- 
tion, to  rob  Chancellor  and  his  men  of  the  credit 
due  to  them. 

By  the  rivers  goes  our  Chancellor  to  the  city 
of  Moscow  and  the  court  of  Ivan  Grozny,  Ivan 
who  is  to  be  Feared,  on  an  adventure  as  strange 
as  that  of  the  Prince  in  the  tale  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty.  I  have  forgotten  how  they  tell  the  tale 
in  England.  It  is  Tchaikovsky  who  tells  it  to 
the  Russians  in  a  ballet  which  is  too  unsophisti- 
cated for  us  to  be  allowed  to  see  at  Covent  Garden. 
In  the  Marinsky  Theatre  one  watches  the  Prince's 
skiff,  with  a  fairy  at  the  helm,  glide  to  adorable 
music  down  a  river,  that  winds  through  moon-lit 
woodlands,  by  cities  and  by  castles,  on  the  way 
to  a  forgotten  palace  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
And  in  the  palace  the  Prince,  a  Prince  of  the  age 
of  the  Roi  Soleil,  wakes  from  the  sleep  of  cen- 
turies the  Beauty  and  the  King  and  the  Queen 
and  the  courtiers,  who  come  to  life  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  wearing  the  costumes  of  the 
fourteenth.  And  our  Chancellor's  boat  takes  him 
into  the  past.  He  is  a  man  of  a  race  whose 

22 


My  Slav  Friends 

mind  was  formed  by  mighty  forces,  that  have 
never  been  deployed  on  the  mind  of  Russia. 
The  people  of  the  city  to  which  he  goes  fell  asleep 
when  chivalry  was  enthroning  woman  in  the 
West  and  teaching  men  to  reverence  her,  when 
disputatious  schoolmen  were  teaching  the  art 
of  logical  thinking  and  were  reasoning  about 
heavenly  things  in  the  language  of  Aristotle; 
and  they  slept  on  while  far  away  the  music  of 
the  Renaissance  made  gladness  in  the  West  and 
the  reproving  voices  of  German  Reformers  thun- 
dered over  Europe  and  were  echoed  from  England 
and  Poland  and  Scandinavia.  To  make  clear 
that  I  am  not  fanciful,  that  I  am  not  working 
up  a  case,  I  make  bold  to  insert  at  this  point  a 
sentence  from  a  learned  work  of  a  most  learned 
Russian.  "  I  should  say/'  writes  Professor  Klu- 
chevsky,  of  the  University  of  Moscow,  in  a 
study  of  the  Muscovites  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
"  I  should  say — though  with  all  reserve — that 
ancient  Rus  must  have  dwelt  in  complete  de- 
tachment from  the  West,  that  it  ignored  and  was 
ignored  by  the  latter,  and  that  it  neither  exercised 
any  influence  in  that  quarter  nor  received  any 
influence  in  return." 

And  here  is  Chancellor  and  his  companions, 
in  doublet  and  hose,  straying  through  the  streets 
of  Moscow,  talking  to  men  dressed  in  the  hieratic 
garments  of  old  Byzantium,  going  to  the  court 
of  Ivan  with  a  letter  from  the  King  of  England, 
vaguely  addressed  to  the  Kings,  Princes  and 
Potentates  who  dwell  by  the  frozen  sea,  juxta 

23 


My  Slav   Friends 

mare  glaciate,  wondering,  likely  enough,  whether 
the  great  ladies  they  may  not  see  are  as  lovely 
as  Englishwomen,  vainly  trying  to  peer  through 
the  opaque  windows  of  the  litters  of  Muscovite 
beauties,  a  little  surprised  to  find  that  many  fine 
gentlemen  are  as  unlettered  as  English  yokels. 

Now  what,  apart  from  speculation,  did  we 
think  of  one  another  when  we  first  met,  we  and 
the  Russians?  Candour  requires  me  to  admit 
that  neither  of  us  formed  a  high  opinion  of  the 
other.  We  did  not  rush  into  one  another's  arms 
and  confess  that  it  was  ridiculous  that  such 
charming  people  had  never  met  before;  on  the 
contrary  :  mutual  antipathy  permitted  no  more 
than  a  frigid  acquaintance,  based  on  the  hope 
that  it  would  lead  to  material  benefits  to  both 
parties.  To  tell  the  truth  :  both  we  and  the 
Russians  were  exceedingly  conceited.  We  be- 
lieved— I  do  not  say  without  justification — that 
we  were  the  finest  people  in  the  world.  The 
Venetian  ambassador  at  the  court  of  Henry  VII 
hit  us  off  very  cleverly  when  he  declared  that,  if 
we  saw  a  handsome  foreigner,  we  said  that  he  was 
exactly  like  an  Englishman  or  that  it  was  a  pity 
he  was  not  an  Englishman.  And  as  for  the 
Russians,  if  their  pride  was  of  a  different  order, 
it  was  no  less  exasperating.  They  were  convinced 
that  the  spiritual  privileges  of  Rome  and  the  tem- 
poral privileges  of  Constantinople  were  united  in 
Moscow.  They  were  prepared  to  accept  as  axiom- 
atic the  statement  made  to  Ivan  the  Terrible's 
successor  by  the  Patriarch  of  Constantinople : 

24 


My  Slav   Friends 


"  Thy  great  Tsardom  of  Rus  doth  surpass  all  in 
piety,  and  thou  alone  art  known  throughout  the 
universe  as  the  one  Christian  Tsar." 

We  prided  ourselves  on  our  scholarship,  and 
the  Russians  gloried  in  their  ignorance  of  secular 
learning. 

"  All  studies  of  humanitie  they  utterly  refuse," 
reported  Chancellor,  when  he  returned  to  England ; 
"  concerning  the  Latine,  Greeke,  and  Hebrew 
tongues,  they  are  altogether  ignorant  in  them." 

From  the  point  of  view  of  a  godly  Russian  of 
the  period  this  statement  was  the  highest  praise. 
"  Impious  in  the  sight  of  God  is  every  man 
who  loveth  mathematics,"  says  an  old  Russian 
writer,  "  and  a  spiritual  sin  it  is  to  study  astro- 
nomy and  the  books  of  Greece."  And  a  hundred 
years  after  Chancellor's  discovery  of  Russia, 
many  Muscovites  saw  the  gravest  danger  to 
faith  and  morals  in  the  studies  which  the  more 
daring  and  emancipated  were  undertaking.  Some 
young  men,  who  had  begun  to  learn  Greek  and 
Latin,  abandoned  the  study  of  these  languages 
on  the  ground  that  knowledge  of  them  was  perilous 
to  the  soul.  Heresy  lurked  in  the  Greek  letters 
and  evil  in  the  Latin  tongue.  "  Whosoever 
hath  studied  the  Latin  language,  hath  wandered 
from  the  true  road,"  wrote  one  of  these  repentant 
youths. 

A  passage  in  the  report  of  his  visit  to  Muscovy, 
which  Chancellor  delivered  to  Queen  Mary,  sets 
forth  with  great  clarity  the  opinion  the  Russians 
formed  of  us  and  our  opinion  of  them.  After 

25 


My  Slav   Friends 


stating  that  it  is  the  custom  in  Russia  to  place 
a  paper  in  the  hand  of  a  dead  man,  on  which  it 
is  recorded  that  he  died  in  the  Orthodox  Faith, 
Chancellor  explains  :  '  This  writing  or  letter  they 
say  they  send  to  S.  Peter,  who,  receiving  it  (as 
they  affirme)  reades  it,  and  by  and  by  admits 
him  into  heaven,  and  that  his  glory  and  place 
is  higher  and  greater  than  the  glory  of  the  Chris- 
tians of  the  Latine  church,  reputing  themselves 
to  be  followers  of  a  more  sincere  faith  and  religion 
than  they  :  they  hold  opinion  that  we  are  but 
half  Christians,  and  themselves  onely  to  be  the 
true  and  perfect  Church  :  these  are  the  foolish  and 
childish  dotages  of  such  ignorant  Barbarians." 

Here,  then,  is  a  frank  statement  of  the  attitude 
we  took  to  one  another  when  we  first  met.  Harm- 
less to  recall  it  now,  for  we  can  look  into  one 
another's  eyes,  with  the  candour  of  those  who 
know  that  their  friendship  will  endure,  and  say  : 
Who  would  have  thought,  when  we  first  met, 
that  we  should  become  fast  friends? 


26 


CHAPTER   III 

WE  made  excellent  cloth.  The  Russians  pro- 
duced excellent  tallow.  The  subjects  of  Ivan 
the  Terrible  wanted  the  one  and  the  subjects  of 
Queen  Mary  wanted  the  other;  hence,  on  either 
side,  there  was  a  sufficient  reason  to  continue  the 
acquaintanceship  we  had  forced  on  the  Russian 
people  in  so  extraordinary  a  manner.  For  a 
century  we  haggled  together  over  bales  of  cloth 
and  vats  of  tallow,  and  acquired  no  more  than 
a  superficial  knowledge  of  one  another.  The 
writings  in  which  the  English  gave  information 
about  Russia  to  their  fellow-countrymen  are  full 
of  sharp  criticism  :  the  Russians  do  not  know 
the  Ten  Commandments,  they  are  superstitious, 
they  cannot  say  the  Creed,  they  are  "  notable 
toss-pots,"  the  women  paint  their  faces  badly. 
Every  fault  or  defect  is  noted.  No  excuses— 
and  excuses  there  were  in  plenty — are  admitted 
for  the  backwardness  of  the  Russian  people. 
Sweeping  judgments  abound. 

Drinke  is  their  whole  desire,  the  pot  is  all  their  pride, 
The  sobrest  head  doth  once  a  day  stand  needful  of  a  guide, 

wrote  George  Tuberville  in  a  rhyming  letter 
dispatched  from  Moscow  in  1568,  not  in  the  least 
ashamed  of  making  a  wholesale  charge  to  which 

27 


My  Slav  Friends 

the  Russians,  had  they  been  in  the  habit  of  writing 
books,  might  have  replied  with  a  pertinent  tu 
quoque.  Rarely  is  there  a  word  of  praise  in 
these  writings.  When  Robert  Best,  who  wrote 
in  Queen  Mary's  reign,  says  that  the  Russian 
women  can  sew  well  and  embroider  with  silk  and 
gold  excellently,  the  statement  remains  in  one's 
mind  simply  because  it  is  agreeable.  At  the  very 
outset  of  our  acquaintance  with  the  Russian 
people  we  were  given  a  prejudice  against  them 
through  the  inability  of  the  pioneers,  who  pene- 
trated into  their  country,  to  get  more  than  a 
superficial  view  of  its  life.  We  knew  nothing 
about  one  another's  souls.  And  in  this  matter 
we  were  no  worse  than  other  Europeans.  Seventy 
years  after  Chancellor  landed  in  Russia,  the 
question  whether  the  Russians  were  Christians  or 
not  was  gravely  discussed  in  Sweden.  And  our 
failure  to  understand  the  Russians  and  to  discern 
their  good  qualities  was  not  entirely  due  to  lack 
of  sympathy  or  of  imagination ;  they  held  us 
at  a  distance,  standing  aloof  in  their  strange 
Byzantine  garments,  isolating  themselves  in  an 
inexorable  orthodoxy,  refusing  to  let  us  see  their 
hearts.  I  confess  that  I  become  depressed  when 
I  read  the  old  books  that  foreigners  wrote  about 
Russia,  unless  I  bear  in  mind  that  the  hard  and 
glacial  Russians  portrayed  in  them  sang  songs 
that  seem  fragrant  of  England,  like — 


Sing,  O  sing  again,  lovely  lark  of  mine, 
Sitting  there  alone  amid  the  green  of  May! 

28 


My  Slav  Friends 

I  must  recall  some  fragment  of  ancient  prayer, 
the  words  of  the  old  prince  who  used  to  say, 
when  he  saw  the  rising  sun  :  '  Thou  hast  made 
me  see,  Christ,  O  Lord,  and  Thou  hast  given  me 
this  beautiful  light,"  or  the  injunction  of  another 
prince  to  his  children  :  "  Pass  not  by  a  man 
without  greeting  him  with  kind  words/'  These 
are  the  touches  that  might  have  made  us  one 
long  ago,  had  they  been  given  by  the  old  writers. 
As  it  was,  our  forefathers  regarded  Russia  as 
nothing  more  than  a  dumping-ground  for  English 
goods,  and  this  is  the  view  one  reads  between 
the  lines  of  the  pompous  letters  in  which  Queen 
Mary  and  Queen  Elizabeth  assured  Ivan  the 
Terrible  of  the  sisterly  affection  they  bore  him. 
And  the  Russians  themselves  understood  that 
the  interest  of  foreigners  in  their  country  was 
pecuniary.  "  Everywhere  we  have  upon  our 
shoulders  Germans,  Jews,  Scotchmen,  Gypsies, 
Armenians,  Greeks  and  merchants  of  other  nation- 
alities, who  suck  our  blood/'  wrote  Krizhanich, 
a  Croatian  who  was  more  Russian  than  the 
Russians,  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

It  was  the  Russians  who  made  the  first  timid 
advances  towards  friendship,  and  both  they  and 
we  may  thank  the  Poles,  that  race  that  unites 
in  itself  Slav  charm  and  Latin  culture,  for  being 
the  indirect  agents  to  bring  us  nearer  to  one 
another.  In  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century  scholars  from  western  Russia,  where 
learning  had  flourished  under  Polish  inspiration, 

29 


My  Slav  Friends 

exercised  a  powerful  influence  on  the  bolder 
spirits  of  Moscow.  There  were  those  who  heard 
them  gladly,  and  there  were  those  who  spurned 
them,  holding  their  learning  to  be  evil.  The 
Renaissance  came  to  the  West  in  pomp,  and  a 
Pope  considered  the  publication  of  the  text  of 
Tacitus  to  be  his  greatest  glory.  Its  fascination 
enthralled  us,  and  so  sensitive  to  its  beauty  were 
we,  that  even  our  churchmen  hastened  to  sacrifice 
the  Christian  rhymes  of  their  breviaries  to  pagan 
elegance. 

Sumens  illud  Ave 

Gabrielis  ore 

Funda  nos  in  pace 

Mutans  nomen  Evse, 

they  used  to  sing  in  choirs;  and  now  at  vespers 
of  Our  Lady  I  can  never  hear  them  sing 

Mutans  Evae  nomen, 

depriving  me  of  the  music  of  a  rhyme,  without 
thinking  of  the  great  force  that  transformed  the 
West.  To  Russia  the  Renaissance  came  timidly 
and  by  stealth,  not  greeted  as  a  revelation,  but 
derided  as  a  temptation;  not  boldly  displaying 
the  treasures  of  pagan  Greece  and  Rome,  but 
humbly  suggesting  that  the  Latin  alphabet  was 
not  the  formula  of  a  noxious  spell.  And  to  help 
the  missionaries  were  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Niemetzkaya  Sloboda,  the  German  Suburb,  out- 
side the  gates  of  Moscow.  The  suburb  owed  its 
name  to  the  fact  that  it  was  at  first  the  home  of 

30 


My  Slav   Friends 


the  German  traders  brought  from  Novgorod, 
when  Ivan  the  Terrible  crushed  that  Republic 
and  transported  ten  thousand  Novgorodian  fami- 
lies to  his  capital.  The  aliens  among  them  lived 
without  the  gate,  in  order  that  they  might  not 
taint  the  holiness  of  the  third  Rome.  In  the 
second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century  the 
suburb  was  cosmopolitan  and,  although  it  retained 
its  old  name,  the  atmosphere  was  more  British 
than  German.  Oliver  Cromwell  unconsciously 
gave  an  impetus  to  Anglo-Russian  friendship, 
when  his  triumph  compelled  adherents  of  the 
House  of  Stuart  to  leave  their  native  land;  for 
some  of  the  exiles,  English  and  Scottish  men  and 
women  of  breeding  and  fortune,  took  refuge  in 
Russia  and  afforded  the  Muscovites  opportunities 
of  seeing  aspects  of  Western  life  which  traders 
and  adventurers  had  been  unable  to  display. 
The  German  suburb  was  as  curious  to  Moscow  as 
a  Hottentot  village  at  Earlscourt  to  London,  and 
a  great  deal  more  interesting.  Its  inhabitants 
might  be  unbaptized  pagans ;  but  the  houses  of 
brick  they  built  themselves  were  marvellous. 
They  might,  poor  creatures,  know  nothing  of 
the  divine  worship  of  pictures;  but  they  knew 
how  to  embellish  their  quarter  with  trees,  and 
the  flowers  and  the  fountains  of  their  gardens 
were  charming.  The  manners  of  the  foreigners 
must  have  shocked  Moscow.  What  talk  there 
must  have  been  about  them  in  the  secluded 
apartments  of  great  ladies,  locked  in  by  twenty- 
seven  locks,  where  any  bit  of  gossip  was  a  relief 


My  Slav   Friends 


in   the   monotonous   round   of   household   duties 
and  enormously  long  family  prayers. 

u  My  little  dove,  those  ladies  walk  abroad  and 
expose  their  faces  to  the  gaze  of  strangers." 

"  The  brazen  huzzies  !  ' 

"  It  is  said  that  they  do  not  paint  their  faces/' 

"  What   immodesty  !  " 

"  My  little  dove,  they  wear  dresses  that  display 
the  form  of  their  bodies." 

"  Horspidy  pomily,  Lord  have  mercy  !  ' 

"  But  they  are  thin,  very  thin." 

"  Glory  to  God,  my  darling  soul,  then  our  men 
will  not  wish  for  their  love." 

I  hardly  think  that  I  have  allowed  my  imagina- 
tion to  run  away  with  me  in  the  invention  of  this 
dialogue;  but  I  have  put  the  lady  who  gave 
glory  to  God  in  the  wrong,  for  sometimes  the 
Muscovites  were  unable  to  resist  the  fascination 
of  a  British  lady.  They  found  their  way  into 
English  and  Scottish  homes,  where  ladies  talked 
of  new  books  they  had  received  from  abroad, 
sang  ballads  and  played  the  lute,  took  their 
part  in  the  conversation  of  their  husbands.  The 
agreeable  life  of  the  German  suburb  and  the 
smile  of  a  bonnie  Scotchwoman  were  the  final 
proof  of  the  harmlessness  of  Latin  letters  and 
a  powerful  argument  on  the  side  of  learned  men, 
who  were  trying  to  persuade  Moscow  that  the 
study  of  mathematics  would  not  imperil  the 
salvation  of  the  soul.  Old-fashioned  people  may 

32 


My  Slav  Friends 


have  quoted  the  proverb,  "  Flee  from  the  beauty 
of  women  as  Noah  fled  from  the  deluge/'  but  what 
is  the  use  of  quoting  proverbs  to  men  who  are  in 
love?  Our  ladies  turned  the  heads  of  Musco- 
vites, and  Russian  bridegrooms  went  to  the  altar 
with  British  brides.  There  was,  for  instance,  a 
boyar,  named  Artemon  Matvieev,  who  married 
a  Miss  Hamilton,  destined  to  play  an  unconscious 
but  important  part  in  the  rapprochement  of  Russia 
and  the  West.  Obviously  a  Scotchwoman  was 
not  going  to  combine  the  life  of  a  nun  with  that 
of  a  wife.  She  was  not  going  to  be  mewed  in 
a  terem,  like  a  Russian  lady,  nor  was  she  going 
to  cry  her  eyes  out  if  her  husband  neglected  to 
chastise  her  from  time  to  time.  Miss  Hamilton, 
become  a  Russian  boyarina,  gave  a  British  tone 
to  her  home,  and  guests  saw  the  novelty  of  a 
Russian  wife  presiding  at  table  and  being  treated 
as  an  equal  by  her  husband.  To  the  Muscovites 
the  appearance  of  a  young  girl,  Natalia  Narishkin, 
at  the  entertainments  given  by  Matvieev  and 
his  wife,  must  have  seemed  stranger  and  more 
daring  than  the  presence  of  the  Scotch  boyarina ; 
for  Russian  girls  of  the  period  were  guarded  as 
strictly  as  the  ladies  of  a  zenana,  and  even  young 
people  who  were  betrothed  were  not  allowed  to 
see  each  other  until  the  wedding  night,  when 
husband  and  wife  looked  on  each  other's  faces 
for  the  first  time.  But  the  dignity  and  charm 
of  the  Scotchwoman  and  the  modesty  of  the 
beautiful  Natalia  captivated  the  boyar's  friends, 
and  reconciled  them  to  a  departure  from  accepted 
D  33 


My  Slav  Friends 

custom,  which  must  at  first  sight  have  seemed 
scandalous.  The  Tsar  Alexis,  who  was  a  widower, 
came  often  to  the  house,  and,  perhaps  seduced  as 
much  by  the  charm  of  a  cultured  household  as 
by  the  bright  eyes  of  a  young  girl,  determined 
to  marry  Natalia.  She  became  his  wife  and 
the  mother  of  Peter  the  Great,  most  amazing  of 
all  revolutionaries,  the  sovereign  who  forced  the 
Russian  people  to  abandon  their  customs,  to  break 
with  the  past,  and,  on  pain  of  severe  punish- 
ment, to  adopt  the  manners  of  western  Europe. 
Natalia  was  a  silly  person,  and,  even  when  she 
was  bundled  out  of  the  Kremlin  after  the  death 
of  Alexis,  and  sent  to  live  in  the  country  with 
the  little  Peter,  she  took  no  trouble  about  his 
education  and  allowed  him  to  run  wild.  Yet  it 
is  open  to  question  whether  he  would  have  taken 
so  violent  a  prejudice  in  favour  of  Western  insti- 
tutions, as  was  actually  the  case,  had  his  mother 
not  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  which 
was  more  British  than  Russian.  "  It  is  difficult 
to  make  us  budge/'  wrote  a  Russian,  "  but, 
once  we  start,  we  do  not  stop;  we  do  not  walk, 
we  run;  we  do  not  run,  we  fly."  And  when 
Peter,  with  a  sheaf  of  draconic  ukases  in  one 
hand  and  a  knout  in  the  other,  awoke  the  Russian 
people  from  the  inertia  of  centuries,  they  flew 
with  incredible  rapidity  into  the  arms  of  the 
West.  Away  with  Byzantine  clothes  and  old 
traditions  !  Down  with  ignorance,  and  not  a 
gentleman  in  all  the  land  shall  get  married  until 
he  has  learnt  to  read  and  write  !  Turn  the  ladies 

34 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  Russia  out  of  their  terems  and  dress  them  in 
hoop-petticoats  and  powdered  curls  !  You  won't 
shave  off  your  ridiculous  beard,  Sir,  and  look  like 
an  Englishman?  Very  well,  then  you'll  pay  an 
annual  tax  for  your  stupidity.  You  won't  go 
to  an  evening  party  and  comport  yourself  with 
the  grace  of  a  Frenchwoman,  Madam  ?  Then  off 
with  you  to  prison  !  And  is  Miss  Hamilton  of 
Moscow  to  have  no  credit  for  all  this  bustling 
and  hustling  of  the  Russian  people  by  the  son  of 
the  Tsaritsa  she  had  educated?  I  am  of  opinion 
that  we  owe  her  a  share  of  our  gratitude  for 
a  revolution  which  brought  the  day  nearer  when 
the  frigid  intercourse  between  England  and  Russia 
should  be  turned  to  friendship. 

Here,  then,  were  the  Russians  dressed  out  like 
Europeans,  and,  when  we  saw  them  in  their  new 
finery,  it  entered  our  heads  that,  after  all,  they 
were  very  much  like  ourselves.  It  was  a  sudden 
revelation,  such  as  that  which  came  to  a  young 
man  of  my  acquaintance,  who,  happening  to 
visit  a  public  swimming-bath  at  a  time  when  a 
number  of  common  boys  came  for  a  bathe,  per- 
ceived, as  he  afterwards  related  to  me  with  an 
air  that  showed  the  depth  of  the  impression  made 
upon  him,  that,  when  they  were  naked,  they 
looked  exactly  like  gentlemen.  At  first,  however, 
we  were  inclined  to  treat  the  Russians  as  persons 
who  were  trying  to  squeeze  their  way  into  a 
society  which  they  were  fitted  neither  by  educa- 
tion nor  breeding  to  adorn.  We  were  not  quick 
to  understand  the  temper  of  the  arch-revolu- 

35 


My  Slav   Friends 

tionary  or  the  seriousness  of  his  determination 
to  place  Russia  on  an  equality  with  the  other 
European  powers.  Foreigners  were  disposed  to 
regard  Peter  as  an  exotic  potentate,  whose  pro- 
ceedings were  a  legitimate  cause  of  amusement. 
u  He  is  mechanically  turned/'  wrote  Bishop 
Burnet,  who  was  charged  with  the  task  of  expound- 
ing the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England  to 
the  Tsar  during  his  visit  to  London,  "  and  seems 
designed  by  nature  rather  to  be  a  ship-carpenter, 
than  a  great  prince/'  Eighteen  years  later  a 
French  wit  said  that  he  was  born  to  be  the  captain 
of  a  Dutch  ship.  And  this  was  the  man  who 
undertook  to  give  Russia  a  vie  mondaine,  modelled 
on  that  of  the  most  polished  countries  of  the 
West.  Elegant  Europe  rocked  with  laughter  at 
the  descriptions  of  Russian  entertainments  sent 
to  courts  and  chancelleries  by  the  foreign  am- 
bassadors at  St.  Petersburg,  who  added  to  the 
piquancy  of  their  narrative  by  inserting  here  and 
there  some  malicious  phrase,  such  as  "  the  ladies 
drank  hard "  of  one  of  Campredon's  accounts 
of  a  court  festivity.  As  Waliszewski  very  truly 
says  in  his  delightful  book  on  Peter  the  Great  : 
"  ses  Russes  demeurent  pour  la  plupart  tout 
aussi  rustres  qu'ils  etaient,  en  devenant  grotesque 
par-dessus  le  marche." 

Now  that  the  Russians  have  established  them- 
selves as  the  equals,  in  some  respects  the  superiors, 
of  the  other  peoples  of  Europe,  there  are  some  of 
them  who  do  not  like  foreigners  to  pry  too  curi- 
ously into  their  past.  That  is  a  great  mistake. 

36 


My  Slav  Friends 

If  people  would  let  us  know  their  past  im- 
perfections, it  would  be  easier  to  appreciate 
their  present  virtues.  We  must  be  allowed  to 
see  the  ludicrous  initiation  of  the  Russian  people 
in  the  code  of  a  social  system  which  differed 
in  toto  ccelo  from  that  which  they  had  received 
from  the  Greek  empire,  if  we  are  to  appreciate 
the  amazing  rapidity  with  which  they  assimilated 
the  manners  of  polished  Europeans.  Less  than 
fifty  years  after  the  death  of  Peter  the  Great, 
a  foreigner  would  have  found  it  difficult  to 
detect  any  greater  difference  between  the  society 
of  St.  Petersburg  and  that  of  London  than 
exists  at  the  present  day.  The  Russians  had 
become  polished  men  and  women  of  the  world, 
who  chattered  to  one  another  in  French  and 
were  beginning  to  forget  their  own  language. 
They  indulged  in  the  same  pleasures  and  pec- 
cadilloes as  people  of  rank  in  the  other  capitals 
of  Europe.  The  men  had  learnt  to  make  love 
with  elegance  and  the  women  to  yield  with 
prettily  contrived  reluctance.  They  met  at  the 
play,  at  the  opera,  at  balls  and  masquerades, 
and  at  Peterhof,  with  its  palace  and  fountains, 
that  seemed  translated  from  Versailles,  and  cot- 
tages that  recalled  the  artificial  rusticity  of  the 
Petit  Trianon.  Ladies  dabbled  in  literature  and 
read  the  poems  of  Lomonosov  about  sunsets. 
They  went  to  see  the  historical  plays  of  Sumarokov 
who  claimed  magnificently  that  '"  what  Athens 
saw  and  Paris  sees,  that,  you,  O  Russia,  after  a 
long  period  of  transition,  have  seen  at  once  from 

37 


My  Slav  Friends 

my  efforts."  People  read  the  Spectator  and  the 
Taller,  or  translations  of  articles  from  the  Rambler 
printed  in  the  St.  Petersburg  Gazette.  They 
subscribed  to  The  Industrious  Bee  and  The  Drone 
and  All  Kinds  of  Things,  papers  in  which  Russian 
writers  flattered  Addison  by  imitating  his  style. 
They  admired  Petrov's  translation  of  Paradise 
Lost  and  made  Voltaire  a  fashion.  And  their 
empress,  with  that  curious  instinct  that  is  not 
infrequently  to  be  noticed  in  the  immoral,  wrote 
fables  and  didactic  comedies  in  which  she  re- 
buked the  follies  of  the  age.  "  We  do  not  walk, 
we  run;  we  do  not  run,  we  fly."  Is  it  not  true, 
that  saying  of  a  modern  Russian  ? 

And  what  of  the  common  people  ?  The  common 
people  !  What  had  they  to  do  with  the  matter 
in  hand?  I  am  writing  of  that  development  of 
Russian  civilization  that  made  friendship  between 
the  English  and  the  Russians  possible.  What 
had  the  common  people  to  do  with  international 
relations  and  the  regard  of  one  nation  for  another  ? 
It  was  their  humble  lot,  both  in  England  and 
Russia,  to  toil,  and  thus  to  give  persons  of  breed- 
ing the  leisure  and  the  wealth  to  play  the  game 
of  statecraft  or  to  trifle  elegantly  with  life.  While 
the  upper  classes  of  Russia  were  acquiring  the 
grace  required  to  play  a  part  in  the  society  of 
Europe,  the  culture  of  the  moujik  remained 
what  it  was  in  the  days  of  Ivan  the  Terrible, 
or,  if  you  like,  of  Yaroslav  the  Wise.  But  both 
the  Russian  moujik  and  the  British  yokel  may 
be  eliminated  from  this  discussion.  It  is  more 

38 


My  Slav  Friends 


germane  to  my  subject  to  mention  that  the  dress 
which  the  wife  of  Peter  the  Great  wore  at  her 
coronation  was  confected  in  Paris.  That  was 
an  event  of  real  importance.  A  few  years  before 
it  took  place  the  dresses  of  Catharine  had  excited 
the  ridicule  of  Western  ladies.  The  amiable 
Margravine  of  Bayreuth,  who  saw  her  in  Berlin, 
declared  that  her  bodice  was  old-fashioned  and 
had  obviously  been  bought  in  a  rag-shop.  When 
the  attitude  of  European  society  to  Russia  was 
doubtful,  at  a  stage  which  may  not  improperly 
be  described  as  the  ought-we-to-call-on-her  stage, 
the  news  that  Catharine  was  crowned  in  a  Paris 
dress  could  not  be  disregarded.  Here  was  a 
sign  of  progress  and  a  proof  of  amendment  of 
manners. 

There  are  not  wanting  Russians,  and  also 
foreigners,  who  are  of  opinion  that  the  revolution 
begun  by  Peter  the  Great  and  sustained  by  his 
successors  was  a  gigantic  mistake.  They  hold 
that  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  allowed 
Russian  civilization  to  have  developed  in  its  own 
way,  and,  although  they  are  inclined  to  adopt  a 
line  of  argument  that  is  historically  false,  there 
is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  favour  of  their  point 
of  view.  It  is  a  nice  question  to  discuss  when 
the  lamps  are  lit  and  the  samovar  bubbles  on 
the  table  and  the  glasses  are  filled  with  golden 
tea.  Let  us  confine  ourselves,  for  the  moment, 
to  facts.  For  good  or  for  ill  the  upper  classes 
of  Russia  adopted  the  dress,  the  customs  and 
the  ideas  of  Europe  with  marvellous  rapidity. 

39 


My  Slav  Friends 

Catharine  I  had  French  dresses,  and  Catharine  II 
glibly  enunciated  the  liberal  and  enlightened 
doctrines  that  flowed  so  easily  from  the  pens  of 
French  philosophers.  A  period  of  less  than  fifty 
years  separates  the  imperial  purchase  of  a  French 
dress  and  the  imperial  enunciation  of  French 
ideas ;  and  in  that  time  the  upper  classes  of 
Russia  had  finished  the  work  of  bridging  the 
gulf  that  divided  them  from  the  upper  classes 
of  the  West.  In  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  the  Russians  looked  like  Europeans;  in 
the  second  half  of  that  century  they  were 
Europeans. 

Thus  a  community  of  manners  and  ideas 
placed  the  Russians  and  the  English  on  the  same 
footing.  But  they  were  like  people  who,  meeting 
from  time  to  time  in  drawing-rooms,  please  one 
another  by  amiability  of  manner  and  ingenuity 
of  conversation,  yet  make  no  effort  to  convert 
intercourse  into  friendship  and  remain  ignorant 
of  one  another's  characters  and  ideals.  We  are 
now  united  by  the  strongest  tie  that  can  bind 
two  nations  together  :  the  task  of  defending  our 
homes  from  a  common  foe.  Standing  side  by  side, 
we  may  look  back  and  trace  the  development 
of  our  knowledge  of  one  another.  And  we  may 
say  of  our  friendship,  as  Adrienne  Le  Couvreur 
said  of  the  friendship  of  Fontanelle,  difficile  a 
acquerir,  and  add  with  the  same  confidence  that 
she  displayed,  mais  plus  difficile  a  perdre. 


40 


A  TSARITSA  OF  THE   END   OF  THE   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HAPPENING,  one  day,  to  be  in  the  ancient  city 
of  Pskov,  I  went  into  a  beer-shop  and  drank  a 
glass  of  exceedingly  small  beer.  I  also  .made  con- 
versation with  the  small  boy  behind  the  counter, 
and,  in  the  course  of  it,  told  him  that  I  was  an 
Englishman. 

Said  the  small  boy  with  great  earnestness  : 
"  Can  you,  then,  tell  me  whether  Sherlock  Holmes 
is  a  real  person  or  not  ?  ' 

Now  I  am  inclined  to  consider  the  small  boy  of 
Pskov  as  a  symbolic  figure,  standing  for  the  know- 
ledge of  England  possessed  by  Russia.  Nothing 
has  struck  me  more  forcibly,  in  going  up  and  down 
the  Russian  land,  than  the  fact  that  the  Russians 
know  a  great  deal  more  about  our  literature  and 
our  institutions  and  our  history  than  we  do  about 
theirs.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  this 
should  be  so.  Little  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago,  as  we  have  seen,  Peter  the  Great 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  national  life  of 
Russia  was  not  on  the  right  lines  and  decided 
to  approximate  it  to  Western  models.  He  and  his 
coadjutors  ransacked  Europe  for  what  they  wanted, 
and  made  the  Russians  the  most  inquisitive 
and  most  imitative  people  of  the  Continent. 

Peter  could  set  up  Swedish  ministries,  or  colleges, 

4* 


My  Slav   Friends 

as  they  used  to  be  called,  in  Petrograd;  but  a 
swarm  of  foreigners  had  to  be  employed  to  set 
their  complicated  machinery  in  motion;  and,  if 
the  administration  of  the  Russian  empire  was 
not  to  be  permanently  conducted  by  strangers, 
Russians  had  to  copy  their  methods.  Peter  could 
found  a  Naval  College  and  a  School  of  Surgeons 
and  create  an  Academy  of  Learning  magnifi- 
cently by  issuing  an  ukase,  but  he  had  to  plump 
down  foreigners  in  the  professorial  chairs  he 
endowed,  and  the  business  of  students  was  to 
acquire  from  them  foreign  learning  and  foreign 
ideas.  He  could  order  Russian  society  to  take  its 
tone  from  Paris ;  but  to  enable  it  to  do  so,  it  was 
necessary  for  Russians  to  sit  and  watch  Frenchmen 
giving  them  an  exhibition  of  high  breeding  and 
elegance  of  manners.  Peter  hurled  into  Russia 
a  heterogeneous  collection  of  foreigners,  picked 
up  anyhow  and  anywhere :  chancellery  clerks, 
ship-carpenters,  milliners,  engineers,  actresses, 
professors,  surgeons,  drill-sergeants.  And  the 
Russians,  who  had  abandoned  their  own  way  of 
governing  the  State  and  of  governing  the  Church, 
who  had  renounced  their  former  manner  of  life  and 
torn  their  books  of  complicated  etiquette  to  shreds, 
sat  at  the  feet  of  the  foreigners,  deferring  to 
them,  like  young  nuns  to  an  abbess,  in  order  to 
learn  how  to  begin  life  anew.  Accordingly  they 
formed  a  habit,  which  they  have  never  lost,  of 
acquiring  information  about  foreign  countries  and 
of  copying  foreign  methods  and  foreign  manners. 
"  Lawks  !  "  interjected  the  daughter  of  a  Russian 

42 


My  Slav  Friends 


Cabinet  minister  in  the  course  of  a  conversation 
with  a  Scotchwoman. 

"  My  dear  !  "  said  the  horrified  Scotchwoman, 
"  where  did  you  learn  that  dreadful  expression  ?  ' 

"  My  English  governess  always  uses  it,"  replied 
the  girl. 

Now,  ever  since  the  time  of  Peter  the  Great, 
there  have  been  plenty  of  animate  foreign  models, 
imported  into  Russia,  as  faulty  as  the  peculiar 
English  governess  of  the  Cabinet  minister's  daugh- 
ter. Russians  are  aware  of  this,  and,  desiring 
to  accomplish  the  work  they  have  undertaken 
thoroughly,  find  in  the  fact  a  new  incentive  to 
curiosity  and  the  acquisition  of  better  knowledge 
from  abroad. 

When  Vassili,  to  speak  of  a  trifling  indication 
of  this  spirit,  asks  me  whether  Englishmen  dress 
up  in  dinner-jackets  to  make  afternoon  calls  and 
learns  that  they  do  not,  I  know  that,  whatever  he 
may  have  done  in  the  past,  he  will  be  careful  to 
eschew  dinner-jackets  in  the  afternoons  of  the 
future. 

Vassili's  spirit  is  in  violent  opposition  to  that 
of  Erich,  a  Prussian  boy  whom  I  knew  in  Berlin. 
We  were  walking  one  day  in  the  Unter  den  Linden, 
and  fell  in  with  an  English  friend  of  mine,  who, 
it  was  evident,  had  degenerated  under  Prussian 
influence,  for  he  was  wearing  a  black  tail-coat  with 
a  bowler  hat.  I  chaffed  him,  affecting  dismay  and 
horror  at  his  temerity. 

"  One  can  wear  a  bowler  with  a  tail-coat  in 
Germany,"  he  said. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

I  begged  him  to  think  of  his  aged  parents,  of 
his  country,  his  religion,  and  mend  his  manners 
before  it  was  too  late.  And  Erich,  the  merry, 
mercurial  Erich,  being  a  Prussian  and  therefore 
incapable  of  understanding  that  I  was  talking 
nonsense,  undertook  the  defence  of  my  erring 
friend. 

"  We're  in  Berlin/'  he  remarked  tartly;  "  your 
London  fashions  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  us.  Your  Herr  friend  is  perfectly  right.  His 
costume  is  most  elegant/' 

A  great  deal  might  be  said  for  and  against  the 
attitude  of  Vassili  and  the  attitude  of  Erich  to 
foreign  things.  Vassili's  spirit  is  old-fashioned 
and  traditional.  "  From  time  immemorial/'  said 
Prince  Andrew  Vyazemsky,  the  poet  and  politician 
who  was  born  in  the  reign  of  Catharine  II  and  died 
at  a  great  age  in  1878,  "  we  have  been  accustomed 
to  put  up  our  umbrellas  by  the  Neva  when  it 
rains  in  Paris."  Erich's  spirit  is  younger,  and, 
not  a  great  number  of  years  ago,  would  have  been 
considered  by  his  fellow-countrymen  to  have 
savoured  of  novelty.  Nowadays  it  seems  almost 
unbelievable  that,  seventy  years  ago,  the  progres- 
sive Germans  wiio  contributed  to  the  Jahrbucher 
of  Halle,  publications  that  appealed  to  the  ad- 
vanced and  daring  young  men  of  the  day,  should 
have  pointed  to  France  as  the  land  from  which 
salvation  was  to  come  to  Germany.  One  must 
see  in  the  pages  of  one  of  these  Jahrbucher,  printed 
in  good  Gothic  letters,  the  exhortation  of  a 
German  to  Germans  to  become  true  Frenchmen, 

44 


My  Slav   Friends 

in  order  to  convince  oneself  that  such  a  sentiment 
was  ever  set  down  by  a  German  pen.  And  I  can 
conceive  no  more  excruciating  torture  to  which 
the  Allies  could  put  the  Kaiser  than  to  imprison 
him  in  Frederick  the  Great's  library  at  the  Palace 
of  Sans-Souci  at  Potsdam,  where  he  would  find 
himself  encircled  by  shelves  on  which  every  one 
of  the  books  is  French. 

Which  of  the  two  views  is  right,  that  of  Vassili 
or  that  of  Erich,  I  have  no  time  at  present  to 
discuss  :  to  be  frank,  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps 
the  one  view  is  better  for  Vassili  and  the  other 
for  Erich.  But  I  do  know  that  Vassili' s  spirit 
makes  Petrograd  a  more  habitable  city  than 
Erich's  spirit  makes  Berlin.  Petrograd  is  far 
nearer  to  Paris  than  is  Berlin,  nearer  to  the  Paris 
of  gaiety  and  elegance,  nearer  to  the  Paris  on 
whose  buildings  is  carved  the  motto,  of  which 
the  best  men  and  women  of  France  and  Russia 
and  England  desire  to  make  themselves  worthy  : 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity. 

It  would,  however,  be  a  great  mistake  to 
think  that  the  Russians  are  servile  and  uncritical 
imitators  of  foreigners.  Some  years  ago  the 
working-people  of  Petrograd  were  agitating  for  an 
universal  eight  hours  day,  an  idea,  a  shibboleth, 
if  you  like,  which  they  had  undoubtedly  received 
from  the  West. 

"  But  even  in  England  we  don't  have  an  uni- 
versal eight  hours  day,"  said  an  Englishman  to  a 
factory-girl,  who  was  one  of  the  boldest  leaders 
of  the  agitators. 

45 


My  Slav  Friends 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  us?  "  asked  the 
girl.  "  We  are  going  to  teach  you." 

The  retort  was  a  spirited  one,  and  in  it  sounded 
the  voice  of  the  new  Russia.  Two  centuries  ago 
the  Russians  imported  our  clothes  and  our  manners 
and  our  ideas  wholesale,  pell-mell,  then  they 
began  to  discriminate  and  select,  and  now  they 
are  elaborating  and  improving.  "  You  have  the 
Kingdom  of  the  Present,"  wrote  one  of  the  most 
daring  of  Russian  thinkers  a  few  years  ago,  address- 
ing the  peoples  of  the  West;  "  we  are  the  seekers 
of  the  Kingdom  of  the  Future."  Europe  has 
taught  Russia  much.  Soon  it  will  be  the  turn  of 
Russia  to  teach  Europe.  I  should  not  care  to  say 
that  no  lessons  are  to  be  learnt  by  us  from  Russian 
peasants,  although  I  am  certain  that  Irish  peasants 
or  Spanish  peasants  can  teach  us  those  lessons 
equally  well.  I  am  thinking  of  other  teachers, 
men  who  see  the  flaws  in  the  structure  of  our 
society,  men  who  are  not  deceived  by  the  splendour 
of  its  imposing  facade,  men  who  have  profited  by 
the  study  of  our  errors  as  well  as  by  the  knowledge 
of  our  wisdom,  harbingers  of  the  Golden  Age,  when 
the  happiness  of  the  Russian  multitude  will  pro- 
vide more  cogent  proof  of  the  holiness  of  the 
Russian  land  than  the  lamps  of  the  countless 
shrines,  in  which  believer  and  unbeliever  alike 
have  found  inspiration. 

Meanwhile  dreamers  and  workers,  and  those 
who  dream  and  also  work,  follow  carefully  the 
course  of  Western  affairs.  I  go  to  the  Department 


My  Slav  Friends 

of  Agriculture  to  speak  with  a  bureaucrat  about 
the  changes  in  the  system  under  which  the  Russian 
peasants  hold  their  land,  and  find  that  he  has 
made  a  painstaking  study  of  the  methods  adopted 
by  the  British  Government  to  ameliorate  the  lot 
of  the  Irish  peasants.  He  states  that  he  has 
found  the  study  profitable.  I  take  up  a  popular 
newspaper  and  find  an  elaborate  analysis  of  the 
Irish  Home  Rule  bill.  The  matter-of-fact,  not  to 
say  dull,  style  of  the  article  makes  it  clear  to  me 
that  the  editor  of  the  popular  newspaper  considers 
the  importance  of  its  subject  sufficient  to  command 
the  attention  of  his  readers,  and  that  the  writer 
does  not  find  himself  under  the  necessity  of  cajol- 
ing the  public  to  study  a  serious  foreign  problem 
by  sacrificing  clarity  to  sprightliness.  The  Russian 
editor  assumes  that  his  readers  are  intelligent 
men  and  women  ;  whereas  the  British  editor  is  apt 
to  assume  that  they  are  half -educated  children. 
In  the  past  it  has  been  impossible  to  follow  the 
course  of  Russian  politics  in  the  columns  of  the 
British  press;  when  I  have  not  been  able  to  get 
Russian  newspapers  I  have  found  it  necessary  to 
read  French  and  German  newspapers  in  order  to 
keep  in  touch  with  Russian  affairs. 

It  is  not  our  politics  alone  that  interest  the 
Russians.  A  new  play  by  a  notable  writer  is 
produced  in  London  and  a  few  days  later  the 
people  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd  read  an  account 
of  it  in  their  newspapers.  A  remarkable  novel  is 
published  in  London;  criticisms  of  it  appear  in 

47 


My  Slav  Friends 

the  Russian  press  and  copies  of  it  on  the  counters 
of  Russian  booksellers.  As  for  our  older  writers, 
they  are  household  names.  Dickens  is  as  familiar 
in  Russia  as  in  England.  Even  the  monks  of  the 
Troitsky  Lavra  read  Walter  Scott.  And  hundreds 
of  times  I  have  been  asked  by  Russians  whether 
I  have  read  that  most  amusing  book,  Three  Men 
in  a  Boat.  The  success  of  Mrs.  Eleanor  Glyn's 
books  in  Russia  is  a  complete  refutation  of  the 
statement,  sometimes  made  in  this  country,  that 
there  is  no  Russian  middle  class.  No  English 
writers  are  more  popular  in  Russia  than  Bernard 
Shaw  and  Oscar  Wilde.  One  night  they  were 
acting  plays  of  Bernard  Shaw  at  three  of  the 
Petrograd  theatres,  two  in  Russian  and  one  in 
Polish.  And  the  enthusiasm  for  Wilde  induced 
a  theatrical  manager  to  stage  a  translation  of  his 
least  successful  play,  The  Duchess  of  Padua.  As 
for  us,  we  have  read  Tolstoi,  and  educated  persons 
are  beginning  to  feel  a  little  ashamed  if  they  have 
not  read  at  least  one  of  Dostoievsky's  novels. 
Even  our  literary  critics  are  attempting  to  impress 
the  public  with  the  breadth  of  their  culture  by 
embellishing  their  paragraphs  with  the  curious 
names  of  unfamiliar  Russian  writers.  I  was 
amused  to  find  myself  told  by  one  of  them  that 
a  passage  from  one  of  my  books  was  "  in  truth  to 
life  and  art  " — I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  what 
the  phrase  means — equal  to  anything  that  Artzy- 
bashev  had  ever  written.  I  was,  of  course,  grateful 
to  the  writer;  for  obviously  his,  or  her,  readers 


My  Slav  Friends 

would  form  the  highest  opinion  of  a  person  who 
did  anything  so  wonderful  as  to  write  as  finely  as 
a  man  with  the  name  of  Artzybashev ;  at  the  same 
time  I  thought  the  compliment  back-handed,  for 
the  novel  that  made  Artzybashev  famous  was  so 
singularly  improper  that  the  Russian  censor  sup- 
pressed it  after  everybody  in  Russia  had  read  it. 
My  chaste  muse  burst  into  tears  when  I  showed 
her  the  criticism.  I  am  afraid  the  truth  is  that 
the  critic  had  never  read  a  line  of  Artzybashev, 
whose  novel  at  that  time  had  not  been  translated 
into  English.  But  the  artifice  pleased  me — I  hope 
I  am  not  traducing  its  author — for  in  it  I  saw  an 
aspiration. 

Books  from  England,  good  and  bad,  are  poured 
into  Russia,  but  when  they  get  there  they  are 
exposed  to  keen  criticism. 

"  Who  is  that  dreadful  canaille  of  an  English- 
man who  wrote  a  book  called  Self -Help?"  asked 
a  Russian  student. 

I  found  that  the  poor  boy  had  been  condemned 
to  read  that  apotheosis  of  bourgeois  ideals  at  a 
provincial  school.  And  the  political  opponents 
of  the  late  Mr.  Pobiedenostsev  added  the  weapon 
of  ridicule  to  their  armoury,  when  they  discovered 
that  he  had  superintended  the  translation  of  Miss 
Corelli's  tale  about  the  small  child  that  hanged 
itself  with  a  pale  blue  sash  under  the  influence  of 
emotions  derived  from  the  principles  of  infidelity 
in  which  it  had  been  reared.  The  reason  why  most 
educated  Russians  exercise  discrimination  in  the 
E  49 


My  Slav   Friends 

choice  of  English  books  is  that  they  have  a  great 
literature  of  their  own  with  which  to  compare 
them,  and,  moreover,  know  the  finest  books  in  the 
English  language,  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
lecturers  Cambridge  has  produced  might  have 
discovered,  had  his  Russian  friends  been  candid. 
He  came  to  Petrograd  to  give  a  course  of  lectures 
on  English  literature,  and  his  name  and  reputation 
attracted  a  large  audience.  His  lectures,  which 
had  been  appreciated  in  English  provincial  towns, 
were  admirable,  but  elementary.  And  Russians 
expressed  disappointment.  "  We  know  all  this/' 
they  said,  and  indicated  that  they  had  expected 
a  series  of  elaborate  psychological  studies  of 
the  British  poets.  From  the  small  boy  of  Pskov, 
who  loved  Sherlock  Holmes,  to  the  Grand  Duke 
who  made  a  fine  translation  of  Hamlet — most 
chivalrous,  most  spiritual  Grand  Duke  Constan- 
tine,  whose  soul  may  God  rest — the  Russian  nation 
has  done  homage  to  English  letters. 

And  they  know  our  history.  Some  years  ago 
one  of  our  most  noted  publicists  undertook  to 
advise  a  company  of  the  progressive  men  and 
women  of  Moscow  as  to  the  course  they  should 
pursue  in  order  to  obtain  the  political  reforms 
they  desired.  He  adorned  his  speech  by  illus- 
trations and  analogies  from  English  history,  and, 
when  he  had  ended,  Russians  were  charitable 
enough  to  point  out  to  him  the  historical  errors 
he  had  made.  It  is  not  an  episode  on  which  I  care 
to  dwell.  It  is  largely  due  to  their  knowledge  of 

50 


My   Slav  Friends 

our  past  that  Russians  are  able  to  understand  us 
and  to  sympathize  with  us  in  the  present.  And 
as  for  us,  no  pretty  pictures  of  idealized  Russian 
peasants,  no  translations  of  psychological  Russian 
novels,  no  enthusiasm  for  the  performances  of 
Russian  dancing-girls,  will  give  us  a  true  under- 
standing of  the  Russian  people.  Unless  we  are 
at  the  pains  to  acquaint  ourselves  with  Russian 
history  we  shall  neither  be  able  to  understand 
the  character  of  the  Russians  nor  to  sympathize 
with  them  in  the  difficult  discharge  of  the  tasks 
that  face  them. 

The  trouble  the  Russians  take  to  inform  them- 
selves about  the  domestic  policy  of  the  British 
people  has  already  been  mentioned,  and  the  part 
played  by  the  Russian  press  in  this  matter  has 
been  indicated.  Before  the  war  the  tendency  of 
editors  of  newspapers  both  in  England  and  in  the 
United  States,  with  certain  notable  exceptions, 
was  to  regard  Russia  simply  as  a  source  of  melo- 
dramatic copy.  Aware  that  the  tastes  of  news- 
paper readers  differ,  by  a  convenient  arrangement 
the  editors  assigned  to  each  capital  the  function 
of  ministering  to  a  'special  need.  From  Paris 
came  frivolity  and  faits  divers.  Vienna  provided 
rumours,  invaluable  to  leader-writers  and  elderly 
gentlemen  who  weave  theories  in  clubs.  The 
Berlin  messages  were  couched  in  terms  that  only 
attracted  the  serious.  And  the  thrill  that  some 
people  appear  to  require  with  their  breakfast  was 
expected  from  Petrograd.  Occasionally  the  course 


My  Slav  Friends 

of  events  upset  this  neat  scheme  and  readers 
were  astonished  to  hear  of  frivolity  in  Berlin 
and  seriousness  in  Paris.  And  they  were  still 
more  astonished,  if  they  visited  those  capitals,  to 
discover  reckless  Berliners,  drinking  champagne 
with  fair  damsels  in  American  bars  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  sober  Parisians,  sitting  in 
churches  more  crowded  than  those  of  London. 
Petrograd  they  rarely  visited  and  its  reputation 
was  more  consistently  maintained.  In  the  past 
there  have  not  been  wanting  unscrupulous  writers 
to  supplement  the  efforts  of  the  Russians  to  supply 
the  needs  of  the  foreign  press.  An  American  jour- 
nalist once  showed  me  a  telegram  he  was  about 
to  send  to  New  York.  It  was  an  account  of 
the  trial  of  a  prominent  revolutionary  and  ended 
with  the  words  :  "  he  was  condemned  to  the  mines 
of  Siberia  for  life."  The  fellow  might  have  said 
with  equal  accuracy  that  Mrs.  Pankhurst  had  been 
condemned  to  the  galleys. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  people  aren't  condemned  to 
the  mines.  They  haven't  been  condemned  to  the 
mines  for  years  and  years." 

"  I  know,"  he  said  coolly.  "  It's  the  technical 
phrase  we  always  use.  It  gives  a  thrill." 

And  once  I  took  up  an  important  London  paper 
in  a  Petrograd  hotel  and  found  a  flaming  account 
of  a  most  ordinary  episode  of  life  in  the  capital 
during  the  revolutionary  period.  It  was,  at  that 
time,  the  practice  to  send  a  guard  of  Cossacks  with 
the  curious  black  vehicle  in  which  money  was 

52 


My  Slav   Friends 


conveyed  to  the  treasury.  Petrograd  was  amused 
at  the  innovation.  Often  I  have  seen  the  caval- 
cade sweeping  down  the  Nevsky,  some  twenty 
Cossacks  in  khaki,  mounted  on  hardy  little  horses, 
followed  by  detectives  on  bicycles.  Pedestrians 
used  to  stop  to  watch  the  procession  and  I  used 
to  remark  that  they  generally  grinned.  Notice 
the  simplicity  of  the  process  by  which  this  hum- 
drum incident  of  the  daily  life  of  the  capital  was 
transformed  and  converted  to  the  noble  purpose 
of  thrilling  a  British  breakfast-table.  The  prac- 
tised purveyor  of  news  began  by  changing  the 
Cossack  ponies  into  enormous  horses  and  went  on 
to  make  the  people  in  the  street  turn  pale  with 
fright  and  stand  rooted  to  the  ground,  fearing 
that  the  Cossacks  would  cut  into  them  with  their 
nagaikas.  And  he  conceived  a  superb  incident  for 
the  climax  of  his  highly  coloured  narrative;  he 
made  the  gigantic  horse  of  a  huge  Cossack,  with  red 
hair  flowing  to  his  shoulders,  shy  at  a  bright  red 
motor-car,  which  happened  to  be  standing  out- 
side St.  Isaac's  cathedral,  and  the  infuriated  soldier 
gallop  up  to  the  car  and  bring  the  thong  of 
his  nagaika  down  on  the  shuddering  form  of  the 
chauffeur,  who  had  not  dared  to  move,  knowing 
that  had  he  done  so  he  would  have  been  immedi- 
ately shot.  That  was,  I  suppose,  the  sort  of  tale 
the  fool  who  wrote  it  thought  the  British  public 
hankered  for.  It  is  my  belief  that  the  British 
public  desires  the  truth. 

People  began  to  believe  that  tales  of  this  sort 

53 


My  Slav   Friends 

were  typical  of  Russian  life  and  that  the  supply 
was  unlimited.  One  morning  I  read  in  a  Petro- 
grad  newspaper  an  exciting  tale  of  brigands  in  the 
Caucasian  mountains,  which  contained  all  the 
proper  elements  of  romance :  a  lonely  castle,  pic- 
turesque robbers,  a  kidnapped  princess,  sorrowing 
parents  and  an  heroic  lover.  I  had  no  reason  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  the  story  and  wrote  it  out  for 
an  American  News  Agency,  to  which  I  occasion- 
ally sent  articles.  The  American  News  Agency 
was  charmed.  The  manager  wrote  to  say  that 
he  could  "  take  as  much  of  that  sort  of  stuff  as 
you  can  possibly  send/'  I  pointed  out  to  him 
that  it  was  not  in  my  competence  to  make 
Caucasian  brigands  perform  for  the  benefit  of  the 
American  public.  It  is  true  that  the  Russians 
did  their  best  for  a  considerable  period  to  satisfy 
the  craving  of  foreigners  for  sensational  incidents, 
but  when  their  efforts  proved  unsatisfactory  they 
were  assisted  to  maintain  the  reputation  they  had 
gained  by  writers  gifted  with  imagination.  No 
invention  seemed  too  outrageous,  no  calumny  too 
wicked,  to  be  given  to  the  world  as  news  from 
Russia.  Count  Witte  once  said  to  me :  "  Tell 
your  fellow-countrymen  to  disbelieve  ninety  per 
cent,  of  the  news  they  receive  from  Russia."  He 
underestimated  the  value  of  the  careful  accounts 
of  Russian  affairs  which  were  being  sent  abroad 
by  reputable  journalists,  but,  in  the  circumstances, 
I  felt  justified  in  communicating  his  view  to  the 
press. 

54 


My  Slav  Friends 

Even  so  short  a  time  ago  as  the  spring  of  1914, 
a  ridiculous  story  about  the  influence,  both  at 
court  and  in  government  circles,  of  a  peasant, 
named  Rasputin,  was  widely  circulated  in  the 
British  press.  We  were  told  that  this  man  posed 
as  a  saint,  whereas  his  life  was  one  of  flagrant 
immorality;  nevertheless  he  had  been  able  to 
ingratiate  himself  with  the  Tsaritsa,  to  dominate 
the  aristocracy,  and  to  wield  such  an  influence 
on  the  Tsar  and  the  ministers  that  they  made  no 
important  decision  without  consulting  the  adven- 
turer and  receiving  his  sanction.  Rasputin,  we 
were  informed,  was  the  Power  behind  the  Throne. 

It  does  not  require  more  than  a  moment's  con- 
sideration to  see  the  stupid  extravagance  of  this 
tale.  Accept  it,  as  it  was  told  in  the  columns  of 
some  of  the  newspapers,  and  you  are  inevitably 
led  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Emperor,  the 
Empress,  the  Cabinet  and  the  Aristocracy  had, 
at  any  rate  temporarily,  gone  raving  mad. 

What  was  the  truth  ?  In  Russia  men  are  accus- 
tomed to  show  respect  to  those  who  they  believe 
have  learnt  the  art  of  speaking  with  God.  Ras- 
putin was  reputed  to  be  a  man  of  austere  life,  and 
those  who  had  recourse  to  him  believed  his  prayers 
were  answered.  He  came  in  the  train  of  a  bishop 
to  the  capital,  and  a  pious  lady  of  the  court  pre- 
sented him  to  the  Empress,  who  was  impressed 
by  his  simplicity  and  faith.  She  liked  him  to 
pray  with  her  and  she  liked  to  hear  him  speak  of 
the  things  of  God.  When  she  was  harassed  and 

55 


My  Slav   Friends 

weary,   the  words  of  the  gospel  on  the  lips   of 
Rasputin  soothed  her  and  gave  her  comfort.     The 
peasant  may  have  played  a  part  or,  for  aught  I 
know,  the  flower  of  holiness  may  have  withered  in 
the  glare  of  publicity  when  transplanted  from  the 
country   to   the  capital.      A    courtier,   who    had 
the  privilege  of  speaking  freely,  suggested  to  the 
Emperor  that  it  was  unsuitable  to  allow  a  peasant 
to  come  so  often  to  court.     The  Emperor  smiled 
indulgently,  and,  in  a  blunt  sentence  which  I  can- 
not permit  myself  to  repeat,  indicated  that,  for 
all  he  cared,  a  hundred  Rasputins  could  come  to 
court  if  the  Empress  found  comfort  and  tranquillity 
in  their  spiritual  ministrations.     I  should  be  as 
much  inclined  to  accept  a  Russian  tale  of  the 
influence  of  the  late  General  Booth  on  the  foreign 
and  domestic  policy  of  the  British  empire,  wrhich 
an  ingenious  Russian  might  have  based  on  the 
amiability  of  Queen  Alexandra  to  the  creator  of 
the  Salvation  Army,  as  the  rodomontade  about 
Rasputin  which  was  foisted  on  the  British  public. 
I  have,  indeed,  often  wondered  how  it  is  that  it 
has  never  occurred  to  Russian  journalists  to  dress 
up  British  news  in  the  fashion  in  which  Russian 
news  is  too  often  served  to  us.     Allow  me  to  give 
an  example  of  the  sensational  messages  with  which 
they  might  have  thrilled  the  Russian  public,  had 
they  resorted  to  the  methods  of  jaundiced  journal- 
ism.    To  be  read  in  ideal  circumstances,  you  should 
be  having  buttered  toast  and  coffee  and  carrying 
on  a  spasmodic  conversation  with  several  people 
at  the  same  time. 

56 


My  Slav  Friends 

KING    GEORGE'S    PRISONER. 

THE  REVOLUTION   IN   ENGLAND. 
MME.  PANKHURST  IN  PRISON. 

CHURCHES   IN  FLAMES. 
HEROIC  WOMEN'S  PALACE  PLEA. 

(From  our  own  Correspondent). 

London,  Friday. 

MME.  PANKHURST  is  in  the  dreaded  prison  of 
Holloway.  She  was  arrested  at  her  residence 
yesterday  evening  by  police  armed  with  cudgels.  A 
stroke  of  one  of  these  deadly  weapons  will  crack  open 
a  man's  skull. 

It  is  remarked  that  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
was  at  Buckingham  Palace  yesterday  morning. 
His  High  Holiness  was  received  by  the  King, 
who,  as  is  well  known,  is  a  zealous  adherent  of  the 
Dominating  Church,  which  still  persists  in  forcing 
women  to  take  a  mediaeval  vow  of  obedience  to 
their  husbands.  The  arrest  of  Mme.  Pankhurst,  as 
I  have  stated,  took  place  in  the  evening. 

The  man,  however,  who  is  directly  responsible 
for  this  new  and  amazing  proof  of  the  inability  of  a 
Capitalistic  Government  to  understand  the  spirit 
of  the  nation,  is  M.  Asquith.  I  am  informed  on 
excellent  authority,  but  I  accept  no  responsibility 
for  the  statement,  that  M.  Burns,  the  People's 
Minister,  made  a  touching  plea  for  mercy  at  yester- 
day's meeting  of  the  Council  of  Ministers.  His 
appeal  fell  on  deaf  ears. 

The  blow,  which  it  had  been  hoped  would  crush 
the  spirit  of  the  Reformers,  has  but  strengthened 
their  determination  to  win  in  the  struggle  for  Free- 
dom. A  number  of  costly  plate-glass  windows  were 
smashed  in  the  Regentsky  and  Oxfordsky  irri- 
mediately  the  news  of  the  arrest  became  known,  and 
a  number  of  ladies,  many  of  them  more  familiar 
with  the  drawing-rooms  of  Mayfair,  the  aristocratic 

57 


My  Slav   Friends 


quarter  of  the  town,  than  with  prison  cells,  were 
arrested  by  the  police.  This  treatment  of  defence- 
less women  is  hailed  with  satisfaction  by  the  Chau- 
vinistic press,  and  the  so-called  Liberal  press  makes 
no  protest. 

My  correspondents  in  the  provinces  inform  me 
that  the  spirit  of  the  Reformers  remains  undaunted. 
72,947  roublesworth  of  plate  glass  has  been  de- 
stroyed in  the  last  forty-eight  hours.  Churches 
are  in  flames.  A  bomb  has  been  discovered  under 
the  episcopal  throne  of  his  Holiness  Winnington 
in  the  Pavlovski  Cathedral.  The  official  residences 
of  the  Ministers  are  strongly  guarded  by  police  and 
the  secret  police  (male  and  female)  are  displa}/ing 
unusual  activity.  It  is  significant  that  Queen 
Alexandra  did  not  go  to  Sandringham  as  arranged. 
Sinister  rumours  of  a  plot  have  led  M.  Asquith,  on 
the  advice  of  the  secret  police,  to  cancel  an  engage- 
ment to  appear  at  a  public  reception.  The  art- 
collections  are  closed.  It  is  now  admitted  that 
Princess  Henry  of  Battenberg  has  gone  to  Spain. 
A  number  of  Americans  sailed  to-day  for  New  York. 
A  state  of  great  apprehension  prevails.  As  a  well- 
known  foreign  diplomat,  whose  name  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  divulge,  remarked  to  me  this  evening  : 
it  is  impossible  to  forecast  the  future  development 
of  events. 

I  will  not  harrow  the  feelings  of  the  Russian 
public  by  dwelling  on  the  sufferings  of  Mme.  Pank- 
hurst  and  her  fellow-sufferers.  To  the  horrors  of 
life  in  an  English  prison,  where  the  victims  of 
bourgeois  parliamentaryism  are  not  even  allowed  to 
purchase  food  or  to  smoke  cigarettes,  these  delicately 
nurtured  women  are  being  daily  tortured  with 
diabolical  instruments,  especially  made  for  the  pur- 
pose, with  the  express  sanction  of  the  reactionary 
Minister  of  the  Interior.  So-called  doctors  have 
been  hired  by  the  authorities  to  act  as  torturers. 
The  King  and  Queen  were  at  the  opera  last  night. 

(Later.) 

I  have  just  heard  from  a  personage  moving  in 
court  circles  that  two  ladies,  in  the  midst  of  a 
brilliant  function  at  the  palace,  pleaded  with  King 

58 


My  Slav   Friends 


George  with  burning  eloquence  to  have  mercy  on 
the  tortured  Martyrs  of  Liberty.  They  were  con- 
ducted from  the  palace  and  so  far  have  not  been 
arrested.  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  ascertain 
their  names.  Beautiful  as  they  are  noble,  the  action 
of  the  two  Countesses  is  unsurpassed  in  pathos  by 
any  incident  in  the  blood-stained  history  of  revolu- 
tions. Their  sublime  conduct  has  touched  a  chord 
in  the  heart  of  the  nation. 


It  will  be  noticed  that  the  above  tissue  of 
calumny,  innuendo  and  lies  is  mainly  composed  of 
the  most  harmless  statements.  A  little  twist  to 
a  sentence  from  a  court  circular  and  a  princess's 
visit  to  the  Continent  becomes  a  terrified  flight. 
The  insertion  of  another  sentence  at  the  psycho- 
logical point,  without  any  twist  at  all,  transforms 
it  into  a  foul  libel  on  the  King  and  Queen.  In 
the  past  there  have  been  too  many  little  twists 
and  malicious  sequences  in  the  presentation  of 
news  from  Russia  to  the  British  public.  Since 
the  beginning  of  the  war  there  has  been  a  tendency 
to  fly  to  the  other  extreme.  I  have  read  telegrams 
from  Petrograd  which  have  been  tainted  by  the 
sycophantic  attitude  of  the  correspondent  to  the 
great,  and  deprived  of  interest  by  his  inability  or 
neglect  to  throw  any  light  on  the  questions  of 
interior  policy  which  the  war  has  again  brought 
into  prominence.  Friendship  cannot  be  main- 
tained without  sincerity,  and  it  is  as  important  to 
the  Russians  as  it  is  to  us  that,  in  the  future,  we 
should  be  supplied  with  an  accurate  account  of 
events  in  the  Russian  empire  and  of  its  political 
life,  whether  gratifying  or  the  reverse. 

59 


My  Slav   Friends 

The  public  would  undoubtedly  be  sometimes 
surprised,  if  the  identity  concealed  by  the  words 
"  Our  own  Correspondent  "  were  revealed.  While 
working  in  that  capacity  in  Petrograd,  I  some- 
times found  that  I  had  strange  colleagues :  the 
German  correspondent  of  a  German  paper,  who 
was  also  employed  by  a  British  newspaper;  a 
Russian-German,  whose  career  as  a  British  jour- 
nalist ended  when  he  was  exiled  to  Siberia  for 
selling  state  secrets  to  a  foreign  power;  and  a 
Jewish  revolutionary,  delighted  to  fry  his  own  fish 
over  the  fire  kindly  provided  by  a  British  editor. 
I  might  adduce  other  instances  of  the  kind  which 
came  to  my  notice  when  working  in  Berlin.  The 
most  extravagant  case  of  all,  however,  was  that 
of  the  Varshava 1  correspondent  of  an  important 
London  newspaper,  a  Polish  Jew,  who  had  at  one 
time  combined  his  journalistic  duties  with  those 
of  the  porter  of  an  hotel.  No  doubt  these  gentle- 
men supplied  a  service  of  news  which  satisfied  the 
editors  who  employed  them,  but  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  their  efforts  tended  to  the  development 
of  friendship  between  the  Russian  and  British 
peoples.  The  public  depends  almost  entirely  on 
the  press  for  its  knowledge  of  foreign  affairs  and 
has  a  right  to  know  who  provide  them  with 
information  from  foreign  capitals.  The  French 
custom  of  printing  telegrams  from  abroad  above 
the  signatures  of  the  men  who  send  them  has  been 

1  The  ugly  name,  Warsaw,  derived  from  the  uglier  German 
word  Warschau,  is  not  employed  in  this  book.  Varshava,  the 
Polish  and  Russian  name  of  the  Polish  capital,  is  used  instead. 

60  . 


My  Slav  Friends 


adopted  by  some  of  our  newspapers  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this 
plan  will  be  maintained.  When  I  read  a  message 
from  Petrograd  signed  by  Dr.  Williams,  the  author 
of  Russia  of  the  Russians,  a  book  which  I  venture 
to  think  is  the  best  and  most  accurate  of  modern 
works  on  Russia,  or  by  such  experienced  journalists 
as  Mr.  Frederick  Rennet  or  Mr.  Wilcox,  I  know 
that  I  am  receiving  information  on  which  I  can 
rely.  Experience  has  taught  me  to  regard  the 
unsigned  messages  in  certain  newspapers  with 
suspicion. 

One  of  the  sources  from  which  Englishmen  have 
derived  their  ideas  about  Russia  has  been  the 
novel  of  Russian  life,  written  by  an  Englishman 
who  has  never  been  in  Russia.  I  once  met  the 
author  of  a  novel  of  this  kind,  which  I  have  not 
had  the  advantage  of  reading,  and  I  asked  him 
how  he  had  managed  to  give  the  proper  atmosphere 
to  his  book  and  the  local  colour. 

"  Local  colour !  "  he  cried,  laughing.  "  I  thought 
it  would  ruin  the  whole  business  if  I  once  began 
to  study  the  subject,  so  I  left  the  atmosphere  and 
the  local  colour  to  take  care  of  themselves.  But 
I  assure  you  it  was  the  real  thing — snow,  wolves, 
beautiful  princesses,  troikas,  brutal  Cossacks, 
noble  revolutionaries,  wicked  officials,  and  the 
horrors  of  exile  in  Siberia — and  it  was  a  howling 
success/' 

I  shall  probably  read  the  book  one  day  and 
enjoy  it  immensely,  just  as  I  enjoy  a  performance 
of  The  Mikado ;  and  the  charm  of  the  novel  for 

61 


My  Slav   Friends 

me,  like  that  of  the  opera,  will  lie  partly  in  the 
picture  of  a  land  that  never  existed  inhabited 
by  fantastically  impossible  people.  Unfortunately 
such  books  have  coloured  many  people's  ideas 
about  Russia.  From  them,  I  think,  is  derived 
the  common  error  that  Russian  society  is  extra- 
vagantly brilliant,  whereas  it  is  far  less  glittering 
than  that  of  London.  And  those  figures  of  melo- 
drama, entirely  good  or  entirely  bad,  with  which 
some  suppose  Russia  to  be  populated,  are  only  to 
be  found  between  the  covers  of  foreign  works  of 
fiction. 

It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that  books  pur- 
porting to  give  reliable  information  about  Russia, 
works  written  in  the  interests  of  the  revolutionary 
cause  or  simply  to  suit  the  public  taste,  have  had  a 
more  disastrous  influence  than  sensational  fiction 
on  our  ideas  of  the  Russian  people.  These  books 
often  contain  a  great  deal  of  important  informa- 
tion, but  the  atmosphere,  created  by  partisanship 
or  the  desire  to  pander  to  the  taste  of  the  public, 
makes  them  valueless  to  anybody  who  is  not  able 
to  detect  their  tendencious  character.  I  cannot 
refrain  from  alluding  to  a  calumny  on  Petrograd 
society,  which  I  have  already  dealt  with  in  another 
book.  I  refer  to  it  again,  because  it  is  an  excellent 
example  of  the  monstrous  perversions  of  the  truth 
which  have  been  foisted  on  us.  The  calumny  was 
contained  in  the  opening  chapter  of  a  sensational 
book  about  Russia.  The  author  described  a 
murder  in  a  fashionable  Petrograd  restaurant,  and, 
at  the  outset  of  his  book,  gave  the  impression  that 

62 


My  Slav   Friends 

Russians  are  utterly  callous  by  declaring  that 
those  Russian  men  and  women  went  on  eating  and 
drinking  and  listening  to  many  a  merry  cake- 
walk,  while  all  the  time  the  corpse  of  the  murdered 
man  lay  in  their  midst.  I  was  in  the  restaurant 
when  the  murder  took  place.  A  number  of  ladies 
fainted  and  most  of  the  people  went  home  as 
quickly  as  they  could.  The  musicians  fled  and 
did  not  return.  To  belabour  such  books  now  is 
to  beat  a  dead  horse.  Their  day  is  done  and 
British  readers  are  no  longer  disposed  to  accept 
the  picture  of  Russian  life  they  give.  We  know 
little  enough  about  the  Russians,  but  our  present 
fellowship  with  them  has  made  it  clear  to  us 
that  in  the  past  caricatures  have  often  been 
palmed  off  for  portraits. 

In  our  generation  Mr.  Maurice  Baring  has  been 
the  pioneer  to  go  into  the  Russian  land  and  come 
back  to  tell  us  the  truth.  One  may  sometimes 
question  his  conclusions  or  dispute  his  judgment, 
but  the  candour  and  the  charm  of  his  writing  has 
given  us  glimpses  of  the  Russian  land  and  the 
Russian  people  as  they  are,  and  made  us  see  that 
we  had  been  deceived  in  the  past.  We  owe  him 
a  great  debt. 

At  the  present  time  there  appears  to  be  a 
tendency  to  show  Russia  in  a  pink  light.  After 
listening  to  a  fascinating  lecture  about  an  idealized 
Russia  one  night,  not  long  ago,  I  began  to  wonder 
whether  Russians  were  being  shown  an  idealized 
England.  I  imagined  a  lecturer  talking  to  a 
Moscow  audience  like  this— 

63 


My  Slav   Friends 

In  England  the  shops  are  closed  on  Sundays. 
The  English  do  not  wish  to  buy  and  sell  on  Sunday ; 
they  wish  to  pray.  On  the  windows  of  their 
churches  are  painted  figures  of  the  saints.  The 
English  like  to  feel  that  they  are  surrounded  by 
the  saints  when  they  are  in  church.  And  I  cannot 
help  feeling  that  it  is  the  saints  that  glow  in  the 
windows  of  the  English  churches  that  have  made 
England  the  land  of  self-sacrifice. 

I  remember  once  being  in  London  and  crossing 
the  Waterloo  Bridge.  A  young  soldier,  one  of  the 
heroic  British  soldiers,  passed  in  front  of  me  and 
I  saw  a  woman-of-the-people  touch  his  arm  and 
stop  him,  a  motherly  soul,  wearing  the  national 
headdress  adorned  with  ostrich  feathers,  splashes 
of  ruby  and  emerald  against  the  murk  of  a  London 
sky.  And  as  I  passed  the  two,  I  saw  her  slip 
something  into  the  boy's  hand  and  heard  her  say  : 
"  Here,  my  lad,  go  and  get  yourself  two  penn'orth 
of  gin." 

Twopence  !  eight  kopecks  !  a  great  sum  for  a 
poor  woman  to  give  to  a  stranger,  money  she 
could  ill  afford.  And  I  said  to  myself  :  yes,  it 
is  true,  England  is  the  home  of  self-sacrifice. 

And  supposing,  I  may  say  per  impossibile,  for 
the  Russians  are  sensible  people,  that  the  Musco- 
vites are  being  told  such  tendencious  stuff,  what 
a  dreadful  shock  they  will  receive  when  they  come 
to  England  and  find  out  what  we  are  really  like  ! 

It  is  because  I  cannot  help  loving  Russia,  be- 
cause I  have  always  a  longing  to  go  back  to  Russia, 


My  Slav   Friends 

perhaps  because  I  know  the  fascination  of  the 
faults  of  the  Russians  as  well  as  their  good  qualities, 
that  I  am  almost  as  vexed  when  I  see  a  pink  light 
thrown  on  the  Russian  land  as  I  used  to  be  when 
the  light  was  red.  And  the  Russians  themselves 
are  not  gratified  by  praise  of  this  sort ;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  are  apt  to  resent  an  attempt  to  idealize 
them.  A  short  time  ago  one  of  the  most  important 
organs  of  the  Petrograd  press  devoted  a  leading 
article  to  the  pretty  things  that  are  being  said 
in  England  about  the  Russians.  The  writer  was 
very  angry.  There  is  praise  and  praise,  he  said, 
and  pointed  out  that  to  harp  perpetually  on  their 
spirit  of  self-sacrifice  and  so  forth,  qualities  which 
are  primarily  due  to  nature  (I  think  he  was  wrong 
there),  is  to  imply  that  they  have  done  nothing 
of  themselves  for  which  they  deserve  credit.  He 
declared  that  such  praise  became  in  the  end  some- 
thing like  insult,  and  maintained  that  we  should 
be  better  advised  to  dwell  on  the  attainments  of 
the  Russians  in  science  and  the  arts,  and  on  the 
rapidity  of  their  political  progress,  than  on  the 
charm  of  their  natural  qualities. 

We  and  the  Russians  are  friends.  We  want 
our  friendship  to  be  lasting.  And  our  hopes  and 
their  hopes  can  only  be  fulfilled  if  the  device  of 
our  friendship  be  Truth. 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  the  beginning  of  this  book  I  told  a  tale  of 
an  icon  in  a  coach  with  four  horses  and  postillions 
in  the  imperial  livery;  for  it  seemed  to  me  that 
no  incident  of  Russian  life  was  more  characteristic 
than  that  pompous  arrival  of  a  picture  of  the 
Sorrowful  Face  of  Christ  at  the  opening  of  a 
parliament,  and  none  more  likely  to  indicate  the 
necessity  of  using  any  means  that  might  present 
themselves  of  explaining  the  point-of-view  of 
those  who  manifest  their  deepest  feelings  by 
practices  that  are  so  strange  to  us.  Allow  me 
to  return  to  the  icon  in  a  coach  and  the  cere- 
monies, or  mummeries,  as  many  persons  would 
call  them,  connected  with  it. 

It  is  easy  to  dismiss  such  manifestations  of 
religious  feeling  in  a  glib  phrase,  to  call  them 
superstitious  or  mediaeval  or  sentimental  or  even 
noxious,  to  say  that  it  is  foolishness  to  provide 
a  coach  for  a  picture  and  to  hold  up  infants  to 
kiss  it,  or,  with  an  air  of  intellectual  superiority, 
to  express  the  hope  that  education  and  enlighten- 
ment will  not  destroy  customs  that  are  both 
touching  and  picturesque.  But  neither  denun- 
ciation nor  scorn  nor  obliging  indulgence  afford 
an  explanation  of  the  attachment  shown  by  the 
cultured,  as  well  as  by  the  unlettered,  to  these 

66 


THE   GATE   OF  THE   RESURRECTION. 


My  Slav  Friends 

practices;  and  those  who  hold  such  language  are 
never  likely  to  understand  the  Russian  people. 
They  may  read  Russian  books,  they  may  have 
Russian  acquaintances,  they  may  even  live  in 
Russia ;  but  they  are  bound  to  be  often  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  the  behaviour  of  the  fictitious 
characters,  presented  to  them  in  literature,  or  of 
the  men  and  women  they  know  and  believe  to  be 
exactly  like  themselves,  until  some  crisis  reveals 
the  difference  between  an  Anglo-Saxon  and  a 
Slav.  On  the  other  hand,  a  just  appreciation 
of  the  significance  of  a  kiss,  imprinted  on  a 
blackened  picture,  may  serve  to  explain  conduct 
that  would  be  otherwise  enigmatic.  It  may  be 
needed  to  elucidate  the  character  of  a  man  who 
boasts  that  he  is  an  infidel,  to  show  the  reason 
of  a  ballerina's  refusal  to  dance  in  the  Argentine, 
as  well  as  to  unlock  the  secret  of  a  recluse  or  of 
a  peasant  who  tramps  through  Russia  to  collect 
farthings  for  the  purchase  of  a  church-bell. 

Carrying  icons  about  in  coaches  may  be  a 
corrupt  following  of  the  Apostles.  With  that 
I  am  not  concerned.  It  is  more  to  the  point 
that  the  practice  is  the  result  of  acquiescence  in 
apostolic  doctrines.  So  long  as  there  are  lovers, 
and  mothers  and  children,  in  the  world,  evidence 
will  not  be  wanting  that  our  most  ridiculous 
actions  are  the  result  of  our  profoundest  feelings. 
The  conviction  that  the  gospels  teach  a  divine 
philosophy  of  life  is  the  cause,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  defence,  of  practices  that  may  appear 
childish  to  the  stranger  from  a  land  where  faith 


My  Slav  Friends 

is  cold.  Imbued  with  a  belief  in  the  majesty 
of  self-sacrifice,  the  Russian  nation  shows  its 
veneration  for  the  chief  exemplar  of  abnegation 
and  proclaims  its  desire  to  imitate  Him  by  means 
that  the  divine  foolishness  of  love  alone  could 
devise.  The  Greeks  carried  burning  torches  before 
the  victors  in  the  public  games,  and  the  Russian 
celebrates  the  victory  of  the  spirit  over  the  flesh 
by  lighting  tapers  before  a  picture  of  Christ.  He 
kisses  an  icon,  or  the  book  of  the  gospels  after 
evening  prayers,  as  the  lover  kisses  the  miniature 
or  the  letters  of  the  beloved.  Customs  that  are 
the  outcome  of  faith  become  its  protectors,  and 
practices  that  spring  from  a  theory  of  human 
perfection  sustain  and  spread  it.  Since  the 
Christians  emerged  from  the  concealment  of  the 
Roman  catacombs,  they  have  unconsciously  be- 
come the  supreme  advertisers  and,  with  an  in- 
genuity that  men  of  business  cannot  surpass  and 
must  surely  envy,  have  forced  on  the  attention 
of  the  world  the  remedy  for  the  ills  of  mankind 
they  claim  to  possess  and  offer  to  give  without 
money  and  without  price.  To  this  end  they  have 
used  the  scholar  and  the  poet,  the  architect  and 
the  painter,  the  musician  and  the  histrion,  and 
have  engaged  in  their  enterprise  all  manner  of 
traders  and  artificers  :  workers  in  metal,  weavers 
of  tissue,  jewellers,  embroideresses,  fishers  of 
pearls,  trappers  of  ermine,  merchants  of  spices. 
What  is  the  papal  pageant  of  a  canonization  but 
a  superb  advertisement  of  the  splendour  of 
abnegation  ? 

68 


My  Slav  Friends 

When  the  teaching  of  Rome  was  rejected  by 
the  English  in  favour  of  that  of  Augsburg  and 
Germany  became  their  spiritual  home,  religious 
advertisement  was  severely  curtailed,  with  a 
result  that  warrants  the  assumption  that  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  could,  if  he  chose, 
give  valuable  corroboration  to  the  common 
opinion  of  business  men  that  a  lavish  scheme  of 
advertising  is  required  to  secure  and  to  retain 
the  patronage  of  the  public.  In  the  Baltic 
provinces  and  Finland,  where  the  German  doc- 
trines of  religion  were  preached  and  generally 
accepted  in  the  sixteenth  century,  a  parsimonious 
policy  has  been  introduced  into  this  sphere  of 
religious  activity.  The  sight  of  church  spires, 
the  sound  of  church  bells,  are  the  only  appeals 
religion  makes  to  those  who  do  not  come  within 
earshot  of  the  pulpits.  In  the  rest  of  the  Russian 
empire  the  ancient  policy  of  the  Christians  has 
been  adhered  to.  Above  the  cities  of  Muscovy 
shine  the  domes  of  many  churches,  golden,  apple- 
green,  azure,  milk-white.  They  are  surmounted 
by  innumerable  crosses  that  are  golden  in  the 
sunlight  and  become  silver  when  the  moon  shines. 
From  time  to  time  the  domes  are  painted,  the 
stars  with  which  they  are  powdered  and  the  thin 
crosses  above  them  gilded,  and  the  walls  that 
support  them  smeared  with  whitewash.  Hence 
one  is  sometimes  surprised  to  learn  that  a  church, 
which  looks  new  and  unharmed  by  the  elements, 
was  built  when  Novgorod  was  a  flourishing  re- 
public and  Moscow  was  paying  tribute  to  the 


My  Slav   Friends 


Golden  Horde.  Time  enhances  the  beauty  of  the 
churches  of  Western  Christendom  more  skilfully 
than  painters  and  gilders.  Their  weather-beaten 
walls  are  witnesses  to  the  ideas  that  ruled  the 
lives  of  men  and  women  who  believed  that  the 
sun  went  round  the  earth  and  expected  that 
the  philosopher's  stone  would  one  day  be  found 
in  the  crucible  of  an  alchemist.  On  the  mellow 
brick  and  yellowed  stone  may  be  deciphered 
messages  from  the  dead  to  the  living,  from  the 
ignorant  to  the  illuminated,  according  to  one  man ; 
from  the  wise  to  the  foolish,  from  the  humble 
to  the  proud,  in  the  opinion  of  another.  Easy 
fancy  replaces  the  sparse  and  decorous  congrega- 
tion before  the  altar  of  Canterbury  with  a  host 
of  pilgrims,  and  sees  the  black-robed  monks  in 
the  aisles  of  Durham.  Knowledge  and  an  effort 
of  mind  are  required  to  persuade  one  that  the 
ancient  churches  of  Russia  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  past.  Deprived  of  the  attributes  of 
antiquity,  they  do  not  suggest  a  comparison 
between  bygone  ardour  and  present  coldness, 
but  turn  men's  thoughts  to  the  living  power  of 
the  cross  and  its  dominion  over  men  and  women, 
whose  soldiers  fight  battles  in  the  air,  whose 
surgeons  have  X-ray  cabinets,  and  whose  shrines 
glitter  with  light  derived  from  dynamos. 

The  architecture  and  the  freshness  of  the 
churches  arrest  the  attention  of  the  foreigner  in 
Russia,  but  nothing  is  likely  to  strike  him  as 
stranger  or  more  characteristic  of  the  country 
than  the  innumerable  icons  he  sees  in  the  streets 

70 


My  Slav   Friends 

and  in  domestic  and  public  buildings.  He  may 
miss  the  sight  of  an  icon  driving  out  in  a  coach, 
but  he  is  bound  to  see  pictures  of  Christ  and 
the  Virgin  and  the  saints  at  every  turn.  The 
appearance  of  these  icons  is  singular.  They  are 
usually  painted  on  board,  but  the  greater  part 
of  the  painting  is  concealed  by  an  encasement 
of  silver  or  gilded  metal,  in  which  are  apertures 
to  display  the  face  and  hands  of  the  figure 
beneath.  The  lines  of  a  robe  are  often  indicated 
on  the  metal  covering  in  repousse  work  and  the 
head  of  the  figure  is  usually  surrounded  by  a 
halo,  or  surmounted  with  a  crown,  of  filagree. 
There  are  millions  of  these  icons  in  Russia.  The 
churches  are  filled  with  them.  The  wayfarer 
sees  the  yellow  light  of  the  candles  burning  before 
them  through  the  open  doors  of  little  chapels, 
built  outside  the  great  churches  or  apart  in  the 
streets  and  squares  of  the  cities  where  the  con- 
course of  people  is  greatest.  At  night  the  tinv 
flame  of  a  wick,  floating  in  a  crimson  or  amethyst 
cup  of  oil,  casts  a  flickering  gleam  of  light  on  an 
icon  affixed  to  the  wall  of  a  house  or  shop.  I 
have  seen  an  enormous  icon  in  the  booking-office 
of  a  railway  terminus  illuminated  on  a  festival 
with  a  brilliant  wreath  of  electric  lamps.  There 
are  icons  in  the  bedrooms  and  parlours  of  private 
houses  and  hotels,  in  restaurants  and  tea-houses, 
in  shops  and  the  foyers  of  theatres,  in  post- 
offices,  public  baths,  clubs,  counting-houses,  police- 
stations,  courts  of  justice,  in  the  palace  and  the 
parliament-house  and  the  gloomy  chambers  of 

71 


My  Slav   Friends 


ministries.  And  one  would  as  soon  expect  to 
find  a  peasant's  cottage  without  a  stove  as  without 
half  a  dozen  oleographic  icons,  encased  in  metal 
that  glitters  when  the  little  lamp  before  them 
is  lit  on  festivals.  Russians  live  beneath  the 
gaze  of  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  who  look  down  at 
them  tranquilly  from  their  silver  shrines. 

"  What  is  this?  "  I  said  to  a  friend,  pointing 
to  the  icon  in  his  study.  "  You,  with  your  pro- 
fession of  agnosticism,  keep  that  in  your  room  ?  ' 

"It  is  a  family  icon/'  he  said. 

In  Russia  neither  good  nor  bad,  neither  be- 
liever nor  infidel,  can  hide  from  the  benignant 
glance  or  silent  rebuke  of  the  saints,  from  the 
most  pitiful  eyes  of  the  Virgin,  from  the  sorrowful 
countenance  of  the  clement  Judge  of  men. 

Not  content  with  decorating  their  land  with 
sacred  pictures,  the  Russians  set  forth  their  faith 
before  all  the  world,  and  proclaim  publicly  their 
admiration  for  the  chief  exemplars  of  the  virtues 
it  enjoins,  by  giving  icons  to  one  another  on 
solemn  occasions  and  by  venerating  them  in  the 
manner  tradition  prescribes.  The  Tsar,  as  we 
have  seen,  provides  a  coach  for  the  imperial  icon. 
When  he  arrives  in  Moscow,  custom  requires  him 
to  leave  his  carriage  at  the  entrance  to  the  Red 
Place,  in  order  to  pray  before  the  ancient  icon  of 
the  Iberian  Mother  of  God,  that  is  kept  in  the 
shrine  built  against  the  middle  pier  of  the  two- 
fold Gateway  of  the  Resurrection.  It  would  be 
counted  a  scandal  for  him  to  enter  the  Kremlin 
without  performing  this  duty.  Deputations  of 

72 


My  Slav   Friends 

nobles  or  merchants  or  peasants  wait  upon  him 
and,  before  withdrawing,  ask  him  to  be  pleased 
to  receive  a  gift  of  icons.  The  Tsaritsa  distributes 
little  icons  to  the  wounded  soldiers  she  comforts 
in  the  hospitals.  And  when  the  Grand  Duchess 
Elizabeth  became  a  religious,  the  prelate  who 
received  her  vows  blessed  her  with  icons  of  St. 
Alexandra  and  St.  Nicholas,  sent  for  the  purpose 
by  her  sister,  the  Tsaritsa,  and  by  the  Tsar. 

There  is  nothing  singular  in  these  manifesta- 
tions of  imperial  devotion.  What  pious  Russian 
visits  Moscow  without  hastening  to  salute  the 
picture  of  the  Virgin  and  her  divine  Child  in 
the  Iberian  chapel?  What  gentleman,  what 
merchant,  what  labouring  man,  passes  the  shrine 
without  uncovering  ?  Moscow  was  shaken  to  its 
foundations,  a  few  years  ago,  when  it  heard  that 
His  Most  High  Holiness  the  Metropolitan  Vladi- 
mir intended  to  pull  down  the  beloved  chapel 
in  order  to  build  another  in  a  better  style  of 
architecture.  Nothing  else  was  talked  about. 
The  newspapers  published  columns  on  the  subject. 
Mr.  Goutchkov,  the  mayor,  once  president  of 
the  Imperial  Duma,  was  besieged  by  visitors  of 
every  quality,  who  came  to  implore  him  to  prevent 
the  destruction  of  the  shrine.  Old  men,  he 
reported,  besought  him,  with  tears  streaming 
down  their  faces,  to  avert  the  calamity  that 
threatened  the  city  and  to  preserve  to  their 
children  and  grandchildren  the  place  in  which 
their  forefathers  before  them  had  done  reverence 
to  the  icon  set  up  by  the  Tsar  Alexis  Mikhailo- 

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My  Slav  Friends 

vitch.  All  day  long  people  were  telephoning 
to  him  to  know  if  the  dreadful  news  was  true 
and  to  beg  his  intervention.  He  was  obliged 
to  go  post  haste  to  Petrograd,  where  he  told  the 
authorities  that  he  could  not  be  responsible  for 
order  in  the  city  if  the  project  were  persisted 
in,  and  pointed  out  that  it  could  not  be  executed 
unless  the  workmen  employed  were  protected 
from  the  anger  of  the  citizens  by  soldiers.  These 
representations  were  effective,  and  Moscow  learnt 
with  relief  that  the  home  of  the  Iberian  Virgin 
was  not  to  be  violated. 

Late  one  night,  I  was  walking  in  the  streets 
of  that  city  with  a  friend,  an  unbaptized  Jew, 
when  the  great  coach  of  an  icon  rumbled  past 
us.  The  Jew  took  off  his  hat.  I  knew  him  well 
enough  to  ask  his  reason  for  paying  reverence 
to  a  Christian  picture. 

"  It  is  the  custom/'  he  said.  "  One  does  not 
like  to  be  singular." 

And  as  Moscow  proudly  claims  to  be  the  third 
Rome,  he  had  a  considerable  body  of  opinion  to 
sanction  his  behaviour.  In  Russia  custom  makes 
even  the  unbelievers  agents  for  the  propagation 
of  the  gospel. 

Besides  honouring  icons  by  bowing  to  them, 
or  uncovering  before  them,  the  Russians  are 
accustomed  to  place  lights  before  them.  Anna 
Ivanovna  had  a  candle  set  up  before  the  picture 
of  the  Face  of  Christ,  when  she  took  me  to  the 
house  of  Peter  the  Great.  My  cook  used  to 
light  a  lamp  before  the  shining  icons  in  her  kitchen 

74 


My  Slav   Friends 

on   festivals.     There   is   usually   a   counter   in   a 
Russian  church,   at  which  worshippers  can  buy 
candles.     The    demand    for    them    on    Saturday 
nights  and  Sunday  mornings  is  so  great  that  the 
Holy  Synod,  which  enjoys  a  monopoly  of  the  manu- 
facture of  wax  candles,  makes  a  large  profit  from 
their    sale.      An    Englishman,    attending    divine 
service  in  Russia  for  the  first  time,  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  people  packed  behind  him  kept 
tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  with  wax  candles, 
which  they  seemed  anxious  that  he  should  accept. 
He  took  them  in  the  spirit  in  which  he  believed 
them   to    be    offered  and    accumulated    half    a 
dozen.     The  poor,   ignorant  man  did  not  know 
that  the  Holy  Council  of  Nicaea  in  the  year  787  in- 
structed Christian  people  to  burn  candles  before 
the  pictures  of  Christ  and  the  saints,  an  order 
which  any  Russian  school-miss  might  be  expected 
to    explain    in    an    examination    in    elementary 
religious  knowledge.     His  bewilderment  grew  as 
his  collection  of  candles  increased,  until  a  neigh- 
bour saved  him  from  an  embarrassing  position 
by  taking  them  and  passing  them  to  people  in 
front,   who,   in    their  turn,   sent    them   on  their 
way  to  expire  in  honour  of  St.  Nicholas. 

Tapers  in  the  churches,  lamps  before  the  icons 
in  the  streets,  are  beacons  lit  to  guide  the  way- 
farer into  the  paths  of  self-sacrifice  and  pity. 
The  taper  a  superstitious  peasant  sets  before  the 
icon  of  the  Sorrowful  Face  of  Christ,  in  expecta- 
tion of  a  rapid  miracle,  may  light  the  way  of 
another  up  the  mount  of  perfection. 

75 


My  Slav   Friends 


"  Do  English  ladies  always  cross  themselves 
when  they  pass  churches?  "  asked  an  old  Polish 
lady,  who  spoke  English  perfectly  and  knew  as 
much  about  England  as  most  of  us  do  about 
Poland. 

I  said  they  never  did.  She  looked  a  trifle 
shocked,  pulled  herself  together  quickly,  and 
said  politely  that  English  ladies  were  doubtless 
very  good  and  that  everybody  knew  they  were 
not  demonstrative. 

In  Poland  and  Russia  people  are  demonstrative. 
The  man-about- Varshava  takes  off  his  hat  as  he 
passes  a  church  on  the  way  to  the  opera.  And 
the  woman  of  fashion  crosses  herself  as  she  is 
whirled  through  the  streets  to  a  ball.  There 
are  four  hundred  and  fifty  churches  in  Moscow, 
numbers  of  chapels  and  countless  shrines,  and 
cabmen  seem  to  be  perpetually  crossing  them- 
selves. The  Petrograd  cabmen  are  less  pious,  but 
one  of  them  nearly  tipped  me  out  of  a  cab  on 
the  crowded  Nicholas  Bridge  by  letting  his  horse 
go  as  it  liked,  while  he  himself  was  absorbed  in 
making  a  series  of  signs  of  the  cross  in  honour 
of  the  icon  whose  shrine  we  were  passing. 

"  At  every  journey  and  movement,  at  every 
coming  in  and  going  out,  at  the  putting  on  of  our 
clothes  and  shoes,  at  baths,  at  meals,  at  lighting 
of  candles,  at  going  to  bed,  at  sitting  down, 
whatever  occupation  employs  us,  we  mark  our 
foreheads  with  the  sign  of  the  cross/'  wrote 
Tertullian  of  his  contemporaries.  The  words 
might  be  applied  almost  literally  to  modern 

76 


My  Slav  Friends 

Russians.  None  but  a  pedant  would  object  that 
the  Carthaginian's  second-century  Christians  made 
a  little  cross  on  their  foreheads,  whereas  the 
Russians  adopt  a  custom,  that  was  new-fangled 
in  the  sixth  century,  and  make  a  sweeping  sign  of 
the  cross  from  the  forehead  to  the  breast  and  from 
the  right  shoulder  to  the  left.  In  the  churches 
people  cross  themselves  often  during  divine 
service,  at  such  times  as  private  devotion  suggests. 
Passengers  in  a  tramcar  sign  themselves  when 
it  starts.  Railway  travellers  behave  in  the  same 
manner.  The  stranger  is  surprised  to  see  that 
the  people  leaving  their  houses  in  the  early  morn- 
ing to  go  to  market  or  to  work  usually  cross 
themselves.  I  have  seen  a  young  man,  who 
might  have  been  a  shop-assistant  or  a  clerk  from  a 
counting-house,  stand  to  pray  before  an  icon  in  the 
street  and  cross  himself  many  times.  The  gesture 
is  so  ordinary  that  when  the  great  revolutionary, 
Catharine  Breshkovsky,  desired  to  hoodwink  a 
policeman,  who  was  charged  with  the  duty  of 
arresting  her  at  a  railway-station,  she  crossed 
herself  time  after  time  before  the  icon  in  the 
booking-office,  and  thus  escaped  detection.  No 
incident  could  be  more  characteristic  of  the  holy 
Russian  land. 

Whether  Canterbury  be  right  in  stigmatizing 
the  veneration  of  images  as  a  vain  thing,  fondly 
invented,  and  in  formally  prohibiting  a  bishop 
from  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  giving  a 
public  blessing,  or  Moscow  be  blameless  in  up- 
holding and  enjoining  these  practices,  are  ques- 

77 


My  Slav   Friends 

tions  that  must  be  left  to  those  who  are  com- 
petent to  discuss  them.  The  prevalence  of  these 
customs  in  Russia  has  been  emphasized  in  order 
to  show  the  pressure  of  the  ideas,  of  which  they 
are  the  symbols,  on  the  Russian  mind.  It  may 
be  argued  that  they  are  salutary  and  edifying, 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  superstitious  and  even 
idolatrous ;  but  those  who  condemn  will  not  look 
less  sharply  than  those  who  approve  for  evidence 
of  the  realization  of  the  ideas  these  usages  em- 
body in  the  life  of  the  nation  that  adopts  them. 
People  who  bring  a  picture  of  Christ  crowned 
with  thorns  to  the  opening  of  parliament,  who 
kiss  the  Sacred  Face  and  teach  their  children  to 
do  likewise,  who  make  their  land  a  vast  shrine, 
filled  with  pictures  of  the  saints  and  radiant  with 
the  light  of  the  tapers  that  burn  before  them, 
invite  the  scrutiny  of  their  neighbours.  We 
have  a  right  to  expect  self-sacrifice  and  pity 
from  those  who  are  at  such  pains  to  extol  these 
virtues.  Are  the  Russians  imbued  with  these 
qualities,  or  is  their  elaborate  display  of  admira- 
tion for  them  hollow  and  hypocritical  ?  Are 
their  beautiful  and  eloquent  gestures,  with  fire 
and  perfumes  and  jewels  and  branches  of  greenery, 
traditional  formalities,  unrelated  to  life,  or  are 
they  the  inevitable  outcome  of  the  temper  of 
the  nation  ?  Is  the  spirit  of  the  gospels  choked 
or  encouraged  by  the  devices  the  Byzantine 
empire  bequeathed  to  Russia?  To  answer  such 
questions  categorically  would  be  unsatisfactory 
and  savour  of  impertinence.  If  the  writer  has 


My  Slav  Friends 

already  indicated  the  nature  of  the  answers  he 
would  be  obliged  to  give,  were  he  bound  to  speak, 
the  tales  of  Russian  life  told  in  the  following 
chapter  may  afford  him  some  excuse,  and  the 
observations  recorded  and  incidents  adduced 
may  justify  any  prejudice  he  has  unwittingly 
displayed. 


79 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARTHA  is  an  old  woman,  who  lives  in  a  lonely 
village.  Her  home  is  a  wooden  house,  containing 
a  living-room,  a  barn,  and  a  stable.  She  is  unlet- 
tered ;  for  she  has  never  had  time  to  learn  to  read. 
All  her  life  she  has  worked  hard.  As  a  child,  she 
helped  her  parents  to  till  the  fields  in  summer ;  and 
in  winter  she  fetched  water  for  the  household  and 
the  cattle  from  the  river.  Across  the  snow  she 
went,  with  a  light  yoke  on  her  shoulders  from 
which  two  buckets  were  suspended,  to  the  frozen 
river,  and  lowered  her  pails  into  the  running  water 
through  a  hole  in  the  ice.  Her  husband  married 
her  because  she  was  strong.  She  kept  his  house, 
bore  him  children,  toiled  in  the  fields,  wove  linen 
for  the  garments  of  the  family.  She  bears  in 
her  body  the  marks  of  toil ;  her  face  is  wrinkled, 
her  hands  gnarled,  her  back  bent.  All  the  science 
she  knows  has  been  taught  her  by  the  winds  and 
the  snows,  the  sun  and  the  moon.  The  church 
has  been  her  mistress  in  the  arts.  A  pilgrimage  to 
a  distant  monastery  is  her  most  precious  memory. 

On  the  sixteenth  day  of  December  in  the  first 
year  of  the  great  war,  Martha  undertook  a  journey 
to  the  city  of  Vladimir  and  came  to  the  palace  of 
Alexis,  the  Archbishop.  She  wore  a  sheepskin 
coat,  top-boots  of  felt,  and  had  a  drab  shawl  tied 

80 


MAKING  THE   SAMOVAR   DRAW. 


My  Slav   Friends 


round  her  head.  The  servants  of  the  Archbishop 
did  not  wish  to  admit  her,  thinking,  very  likely, 
that  she  had  come  to  beg.  She  refused  to  go 
away,  and  importuned  the  servants  until  they  let 
her  enter. 

"Will  you  be  the  Archbishop?"  she  asked, 
when  she  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  a  bearded 
monk  in  a  black  robe  and  a  cylindrical  headdress, 
covered  with  a  long  black  veil. 

"  Yes,  I,"  replied  his  Holiness,  blessing  her  with 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

She  bowed  before  him  and  kissed  his  hand,  and 
she  crossed  herself  several  times. 

"Well,  then,  you  see  it's  like  this/'  she  said; 
"  our  Little  Father  Tsar  is  fighting  now  with 
the  Germans.  He  has  many  needs  of  all  sorts 
and  they're  not  to  be  counted.  Well,  then,  I've 
brought  money,  in  order  that  you  may  send  it  to 
the  Tsar/' 

She  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  packet  of  paper 
money,  done  up  in  a  handkerchief,  and  gave  the 
Archbishop  fifty  guineas. 

"  Five  hundred  roubles  !  "  exclaimed  the  pre- 
late, more  than  a  little  taken  aback.  "  Where 
did  you  get  them  from  ?  ' 

"  All  my  life,  little  Father,  scraped  and  got 
together.  And  now  the  great  need  of  the  Tsar. 
So  then  the  Lord  ordered  me  to  give  them  up 
for  a  good  work.  Just  got  them  out  of  the 
bank." 

"  And  you,  old  woman,  what  have  you  left  for 
yourself  ?  "  asked  the  Archbishop. 
G  81 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  Eh  !  I  don't  need  much.  Heat  the  stove  my- 
self, bake  something,  and  satisfied." 

"  And  your  burial?  ' 

"  Something  remains  to  me  for  death/'  she  said, 
and  bowed  herself  to  receive  a  parting  blessing 
from  the  reluctant  Archbishop. 

And  to  attest  the  authenticity  of  my  tale,  let 
me  add  that  you  can  find  Martha  at  Andarov,  in 
the  Tcherkutinsky  hundred  of  the  county  and 
government  of  Vladimir,  some  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  east  of  Moscow.  Ask  for  Martha,  daughter 
of  Dmitri,  and  if  you  have  any  difficulty,  which  I 
do  not  anticipate,  mention  that  her  surname  is 
Pantelyeeva.  But,  even  if  you  go  to  the  ancient 
and  glorious  city  of  Vladimir,  I  shall  not  be  sur- 
prised if  you  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  go  into  the 
country  in  quest  of  Martha ;  for,  as  you  may  justly 
point  out,  she  is  merely  an  ugly  old  woman,  who 
made  an  act  of  self-sacrifice  that  in  these  days, 
when  love  grows  wild  on  battlefields  and  blossoms 
in  the  breath  of  Mars,  can  be  paralleled  in  almost 
any  country  of  Europe.  You  may  indeed  tell  me 
of  an  old  woman  in  an  English  village,  or  a  French 
village,  whose  charity  was  as  great  as  Martha's. 
And  even  should  you  do  so,  I  shall  not  regret 
telling  her  tale;  for  it  has  the  merit  of  showing 
that  an  ignorant  old  Russian  woman  may  have  a 
heart.  And  to  show  that  is  in  itself  a  useful 
performance.  It  must,  however,  be  admitted  that 
deeds  of  self-sacrifice,  which  would  have  been 
notable  a  year  ago,  are  commonplace  now.  Let 
us  turn,  then,  from  the  ordinary  tale  of  Martha 

82 


My  Slav  Friends 

to  the  extraordinary  one  of  Alexandra.  It  was 
told  me  by  Anna  Ivanovna,  who  took  me  to 
prayers  in  the  house  of  Peter  the  Great,  as  I 
have  already  narrated. 

Anna  is  the  daughter  of  a  priest  and  her  husband 
is  the  master  of  a  choir,  renowned  for  the  beauty 
with  which  it  sings  the  services  of  the  church. 
They  move  in  cathedral  circles;  but  they  also 
enjoy  the  society  and  esteem  of  several  gentlemen 
and  their  wives.  This  secular  influence  has 
broadened  Anna's  views.  The  cathedral  digni- 
taries and  their  wives  consider  it  improper  for  a 
woman  who  has  a  family  to  wear  dresses  of  a 
bright  colour  and  fashionable  hats.  Those  of 
them  who  were  in  Anna's  parlour,  when  an  elderly 
Scotchwoman  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  sang 
"  Annie  Laurie  "  in  a  pleasing  manner,  expressed 
the  opinion  that  her  behaviour  was  ridiculous  and 
also  improper.  Anna  told  me  secretly  that  she 
admired  the  spirit  of  the  Scotchwoman  and  saw 
no  reason  why  any  woman  should  not  have  pretty 
clothes.  But  she  does  not  care  to  risk  offending 
the  wives  of  archdeacons  and  archpriests  and,  as 
she  is  thirty-eight  and  a  grandmother,  dresses  with 
great  sobriety.  It  has  probably  never  occurred 
to  her  that  she  could  have  distracting  clothes; 
and  this  is  fortunate,  for  simplicity  suits  her 
girlish  figure  and  delicate,  rather  pale  and  rather 
serious,  face. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come/'  she  said,  when  I 
called  on  her  one  afternoon.  c<  I  want  somebody 
to  talk  to.  I  have  lost  the  children." 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  How  careless  of  you/'  I  said. 

"  It  was  not  my  fault/'  she  said.  "  They  were 
taken  away  from  me  yesterday/' 

I  pointed  out  that,  as  her  son  is  a  strapping  boy 
of  eighteen  and  her  daughter  a  strong-minded 
young  woman  with  a  husband,  the  abduction  must 
have  been  difficult. 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  my  children,"  she  said, 
laughing,  "but  about  the  other  children.  And 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  you  don't  know 
anything  about  them,  because  you  haven't  been 
here  for  more  than  a  fortnight.  You  remember 
Constantine  Ivanitch  ?  He  went  to  the  cathedral 
with  us  on  Easter  eve." 

"A  General?" 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Well,  he  brought  his  children 
here  a  fortnight  ago,  and  asked  me  to  take  care 
of  them.  You  see  his  wife  has  left  him." 

"With  whom?"  I  asked. 

"  But  with  nobody,"  said  Anna.  "  She  has 
gone  away  by  herself  and  is  living  in  a  garret — 
and  she  had  such  a  beautiful  home.  The  drawing- 
room  was  hung  with  pale  green  brocade." 

"  Her  husband  looked  a  kind  man,"  I  observed. 

"  It's  not  that,"  said  Anna.  "  Constantine 
Ivanitch  is  one  of  the  best  men  I  know.  I  don't 
believe  he's  had  a  single  love  affair  since  his 
marriage ;  that  in  itself  is  extraordinary." 

"  Is  his  wife  such  a  terrible  person  then  ?  ' 

"  But  no,"  cried  Anna.  "  Alexandra  Feordor- 
ovna  is  a  real  beauty.  But  you  know  what  our 
Russian  men  are,  and  I  suppose  Englishmen  are 


My  Slav  Friends 


the  same.  They  require  variety;  it's  in  their 
nature  and  there's  nothing  to  be  done.  But  Con- 
stantine  Ivanitch  adored  his  wife.  He  cried  when 
he  brought  the  children  here.  Poor  man  !  I  was 
so  sorry  for  him.  Alexandra  Feordorovna  has 
gone  away  to  give  herself  to  God.  She  wishes  to 
live  an  unworldly  life.  I  suppose  she  wants  to  be 
like  the  people  we  call  heroic,  people  who  wear 
chains  under  their  clothes,  you  know,  or  like 
St.  Simeon,  who  lived  on  the  top  of  a  pillar.  It 
is  very  beautiful/' 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  irony  in  Anna's  voice ; 
on  the  contrary,  she  spoke  with  conviction.  I 
had  only  to  look  into  her  grey  eyes  to  see  that 
her  opinion  of  the  proceedings  she  described  was 
sincere. 

"  Alexandra  Feordorovna  has  lived  severely  for 
the  last  two  years,"  she  continued.  "  She  always 
wore  a  black  dress,  a  perfectly  shapeless  dress, 
and  a  black  shawl  over  her  head,  like  a  nun. 
Occasionally  she  would  put  on  a  nice  dress,  when 
they  received  guests,  because  her  husband  would 
beg  her  to  do  so.  He  is  very  fond  of  entertaining. 
But  at  a  dinner-party  she  would  sit  at  the  head  of 
the  table  and  eat  a  raw  herring  and  black  bread, 
while  every  one  else  was  having  all  sorts  of  nice 
dishes.  They  had  an  excellent  cook.  And  she 
drank  nothing  but  water.  And  now  she  has  gone 
away  to  lead  a  perfect  life.  Constantine  Ivanitch 
had  nobody  to  look  after  the  children,  so  he 
brought  them  here.  Such  nice  children  !  The  boy 
is  ten  and  the  girl  eleven.  They  were  quite  good, 

85 


My  Slav   Friends 

but  they  were  always  asking  when  they  could  go 
to  their  mother.  The  father  is  exceedingly  fond  of 
them  and  he  did  his  best  to  make  them  contented. 
He  is  a  very  busy  man,  but  he  came  to  see  them 
nearly  every  day.  And  he  always  brought  them 
presents,  chocolates  and  the  most  beautiful  toys. 
But  they  didn't  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
toys,  and  the  first  thing  they  always  asked  him  was 
when  were  they  going  to  see  their  mother.  And 
they  cried  for  her.  That  upset  him  very  much. 
He  used  to  try  and  get  them  to  play.  One  morn- 
ing he  brought  in  a  beautiful  mechanical  train- 
he  must  have  given  I  don't  know  what  for  it — and 
he  made  it  go  all  over  the  floor.  They  were  quite 
excited  for  a  little  while,  and  then  suddenly  ceased 
to  take  any  interest  in  it,  burst  out  crying,  and 
said  they  wanted  their  mother.  It  was  most 
distressing.  I  couldn't  help  crying  myself.  And 
then,  less  than  a  week  ago,  their  aunt,  Alexandra 
Feordorovna's  sister,  came  and  said  she  had  come 
to  take  them  to  their  mother.  They  were  in 
the  room  when  she  arrived,  and  were  wild  with 
delight ;  but  I  refused  to  let  them  go,  and  the  aunt, 
a  most  disagreeable  woman,  had  to  leave  without 
them.  I  had  a  dreadful  time  with  them  when 
she  had  gone.  She  came  back  the  next  day  and 
said  that  legal  proceedings  were  going  to  be  taken 
against  me  for  unlawfully  keeping  children  from 
their  mother  and  that  it  was  a  very  serious  offence. 
She  was  so  rude  that  I  had  to  get  my  husband  to 
come  in  to  talk  with  her.  He  let  her  have  her 
way.  He  always  says  it  is  unwise  to  interfere  in 

86 


My  Slav   Friends 

other  people's  affairs.  So  she  took  them  away. 
I  have  been  to  see  them.  They  are  living  with 
their  mother  in  an  attic  in  the  Kazansky.  The 
place  was  almost  bare  and  they  sleep  on  mattresses 
on  the  floor.  They  were  drinking  tea  and  eating 
black  bread  without  any  butter  when  I  went  in. 
And  they  seemed  perfectly  happy,  merry,  and 
not  the  least  like  what  they  were  when  they 
were  here.  I  think  holy  people  attract  children. 
Alexandra  Feordorovna  told  me  that  she  desired 
them  to  learn  to  be  unworldly,  in  order  that  they 
may  be  happy.  She  is  giving  them  lessons,  but 
they  spend  a  considerable  part  of  the  day  in  prayer. 
She  said  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the  devotion  with 
which  they  bow  and  cross  themselves  while  she 
reads  the  office/' 

A  few  months  later  Anna  gave  me  another 
chapter  of  the  history  of  Alexandra  Feordorovna 
and  her  children. 

"  Constantine  Ivanitch  wanted  to  send  the  boy  to 
one  of  the  privileged  schools  for  nobles,"  she  said; 
"but  the  mother  would  not  permit  it.  She  has 
sent  him  to  be  a  chorister  at  the  Kazan  Cathedral, 
just  as  if  he  were  a  common  boy.  She  said  it  was 
better  for  him  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  Virgin  all 
day  than  to  be  in  the  Corps  des  Pages.  And  she 
has  sent  her  daughter  to  live  in  a  school  kept  by 
nuns.  It  is  two  hundred  versts  from  Petrograd, 
and  when  she  wanted  to  visit  the  child  she  went 
all  the  way  on  foot.  She  will  not  take  any  money 
from  her  husband  for  herself,  so  she  could  not  go 
by  train,  even  if  she  had  wanted  to.  When  she 


My  Slav   Friends 

told  me  about  this,  I  asked  her  how  she  had 
managed.  '  The  peasants  on  the  way  were  good 
to  me/  she  said;  '  they  gave  me  food  and  a  place 
to  sleep  in.'  And  she  walked  all  the  way  back. 
It  is  very  beautiful;  but  sometimes  I  think  it 
would  be  better  if  the  children  could  be  brought 
up  differently." 

I  told  her  that  the  wish  did  her  credit. 

"  No/'  she  said,  "  it  only  shows  that  I  am 
worldly.  I  have  not  the  heavenly  mind  of 
Alexandra  Feordorovna." 

I  did  not  challenge  Anna's  estimate  of  conduct 
that  appeared  to  me  monstrous;  for  I  realized 
that  between  us  was  a  barrier  that  neither  of  us 
could  scale.  She  was  a  Russian;  I  was  an  Eng- 
lishman. Her  thoughts  were  those  of  Eastern 
Christendom ;  mine  those  of  the  West.  She  be- 
longed to  a  race  whose  character  has  been  moulded 
and  point  of  view  defined  by  different  forces  from 
those  deployed  on  Western  nations.  To  her  the 
savage  asceticism  of  the  pillar  saints  was  praise- 
worthy and,  moreover,  comprehensible.  I  know 
too  little  about  the  soul  of  man  to  allow  myself  to 
echo  the  words  in  which  the  historian  professed  his 
contempt  and  pity  for  St.  Simeon  Stylites  and  his 
companions;  but  I  am  conscious  that  I  lack  the 
faculty,  possessed  by  Anna  in  common  with  multi- 
tudes of  Russians,  to  appreciate  their  voluntary 
martyrdom.  The  West  once  felt  the  spell  of  the 
East,  and  the  names  of  some  of  the  most  ex- 
travagant of  Eastern  ascetics  appear  in  Western 
calenders;  but  the  Latin  clergy  ignore  them  and 


My  Slav  Friends 

are  accustomed,  if  questioned,  to  state  that  the 
lives  of  these  saints  are  proposed  to  the  admiration 
of  the  faithful  and  not  for  their  imitation.  The 
flight  of  Alexandra  Feordorovna,  which  a  Russian 
thought  sublime,  recalls  that  of  St.  Elizabeth  of 
Hungary,  an  act  of  renunciation  excused,  rather 
than  admired,  by  the  Catholics  on  the  ground  that 
the  saintly  Landgravine  nursed  the  sick,  gave  alms 
to  the  poor,  and  thwarted  avaricious  merchants 
who  sought,  in  time  of  famine,  to  make  a  corner 
in  wheat  In  Western  Christendom  the  justifica- 
tion of  extraordinary  asceticism  is  success.  The 
Christians  of  the  East,  less  practical,  do  not  require 
to  see  the  fruit  of  singular  piety  in  order  to  revere 
it.  Six  thousand  soldiers  and  a  host  of  notable 
persons  translated  the  bones  of  St.  Simeon  Stylites 
from  the  mountain  of  Telenissa  to  Antioch,  where 
they  were  long  held  to  be  the  most  splendid  posses- 
sion of  the  city.  The  reigning  Emperor  of  Russia 
and  his  subjects  go  on  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of 
St.  Seraphim,  a  modern  ascetic,  whose  austerities, 
if  less  terrible,  yielded  no  richer  harvest  than  those 
of  the  Stylite.  This  popular  saint  hid  himself  in 
the  recesses  of  a  forest  and  for  thirty  years  did 
not  utter  a  word.  A  few  disciples  gathered  round 
him  to  learn  his  heavenly  lore.  The  country- 
people  sought  his  prayers  and  his  counsel.  He 
made  no  novel  appeal  to  his  age,  nor  did  he,  like 
Benedict  or  Loyola,  initiate  a  movement  which 
should  spread  his  fame  and  justify  in  the  eyes  of 
future  generations  piety  that  might  seem  extrava- 
gant. A  monastery,  erected  by  his  disciples  in 


My  Slav  Friends 

the  place  where  he  spent  his  years  in  prayer  and 
penance,  is  the  meagre  monument  of  his  austerities. 
To  the  Russian,  St.  Seraphim's  life  is  its  own 
justification,  and  his  renunciation  of  the  common 
and  legitimate  joys  of  mankind  a  sufficient  claim 
to  admiration.  His  portrait  decorates  the  palace 
and  the  peasant's  hut.  There  is  one  in  Anna's 
parlour;  perhaps  it  was  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  face  of  the  silent  saint  that  she  learnt  to 
appreciate  the  spirit  of  Alexandra  Feordorovna's 
self-sacrifice.  And  I,  not  having  been  trained 
by  my  pastors  and  masters  in  the  veneration  of 
either  St.  Seraphim  or  St.  Simeon  Stylites,  have  an 
inclination  to  melancholy  when  I  think  of  that 
religious  woman  and  her  children. 

Allow  me,  by  way  of  relief,  to  present  you  to 
a  charming  ballerina,  Mme.  Geltzer,  our  dear 
Yekaterina  Feo^dorovna,  as  people  say  in  Moscow, 
where  she  has  no  rival  on  the  stage  of  the  imperial 
theatre.  It  is  possible  that  you  already  know  her ; 
for  she  danced  in  a  ballet  at  the  Empire  and  the 
balletomaniacs  were  of  opinion  that  no  dancer 
who  has  come  to  us  from  Russia  has  surpassed  her 
either  in  fascination  or  technique.  One  day,  when 
she  was  in  London,  I  went  into,  her  drawing-room, 
just  as  a  man  of  oily  appearance  and  oily  manner 
was  leaving  her. 

"  That,"  she  said,  as  he  disappeared,  "  is  the 
tempter." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  the  temptation  will  be  very 
hard  to  resist,"  I  suggested. 

"  But  it  is  rather  hard,"  she  said,  laughing. 

90 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  He  offers  me  simply  thousands  and  thousands 
of  dollars  to  go  and  dance  in  America.  He  wants 
to  shoot  me  across  America  in  a  special  train,  and 
every  night  he  will  whirl  me  in  a  motor  from  the 
train  to  the  theatre  in  which  I  am  to  dance,  back 
to  the  train  after  the  performance  to  rush  through 
the  night  to  another  city.  It's  a  nightmare.  I 
said  to  him  :  '  Do  you  take  me  for  an  artist  or  a 
machine?  '  But  still  it  is  a  temptation.  It 
would  be  very  nice  to  have  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  dollars.  I  should  buy  such  a  lot  of  hats. 
Shall  I  go  or  shall  I  not  ?  ' 

It  was  obviously  not  a  matter  that  I  could 
decide,  and  I  said  nothing.  As  for  Yekaterina 
Feordorovna,  she  leant  back  in  her  chair  and  forgot 
me  entirely  for  two  long  minutes.  Then  she 
suddenly  sprang  up. 

"  I  will  not  go,"  she  cried  with  enormous  deter- 
mination. "  Do  you  understand,  Alfred  Feor- 
dorovitch  "  —that  is  the  name  my  Russian  friends 
give  me — "  do  you  understand  that  I  am  going 
to  create  a  new  part  in  a  ballet  in  Moscow  ?  I 
think  of  the  Great  Theatre  at  the  first  performance, 
with  all  the  critics  and  artists  and  literary  men 
there,  all  the  people  who  have  followed  my  career 
since  I  was  a  child  and  watched  the  development 
of  my  art.  I  think  of  all  that.  I  tell  you,  to 
please  that  audience  is  more  to  me,  far  more,  than 
all  the  money  the  Americans  can  give  me.  Let 
them  keep  their  dollars/' 

And  she  did  not  go. 

Mme.  Geltzer's  sacrifice  of  money  in  the  interests 


My  Slav  Friends 


of  art  was  less  remarkable  than  the  demands  made 
of  her  by  the  Russian  public.  A  musical  comedy 
actress  of  New  York  or  London  would  be  insulted 
and  possibly  burst  into  tears,  were  she  offered  the 
modest  salary  paid  by  the  directors  of  the  Russian 
imperial  theatres  to  ballerini  and  actresses,  whose 
names  are  famous  throughout  the  empire  and 
sometimes  beyond  its  borders.  Russians  do  not 
expect  an  artist  to  use  her  talents  in  order  to  make 
a  fortune ;  they  require  of  her  gravity  of  behaviour 
and  a  spiritual  attitude  towards  her  art. 

"  She  wants  too  much  from  life/'  said  a  Rus- 
sian to  me  rather  sadly  of  one  of  his  fellow- 
countrywomen,  who  was  earning  the  salary  of  an 
ambassador  by  performing  in  foreign  theatres. 
"  She  may  be  making  a  fortune,  but  her  art  is 
deteriorating/' 

Moscow  looks  for  self-sacrifice  in  a  ballerina 
and  is  shocked  if  she  displays  a  lack  of  seriousness 
or  a  tendency  to  frivolity. 

'  What  would  they  say  in  Moscow,  if  I  really 
did  go  to  America?"  said  Mme.  Geltzer  on  that 
afternoon  when  Apollo  triumphed  over  Pluto. 
"  As  it  is,  they  will  look  at  me  very  suspiciously, 
when  I  make  my  rentrie  at  the  Great  Theatre. 
1  She  has  been  dancing  in  England  to  get  money/ 
they  will  say ;  '  her  art  is  bound  to  have  suffered/ 
You  know  they  are  a  little  unhappy  about  me, 
because  I  wear  pretty  hats.  In  Moscow  people 
think  that  an  artist  should  have  the  most  beautiful 
things  in  the  world,  when  they  are  necessary  for 
the  part  she  has  to  play  on  the  stage;  but  they 

92 


My  Slav  Friends 

consider  she  should  not  trouble  about  the  fashions 
in  real  life.  If  she  does,  they  jump  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  is  not  serious  about  her  art.  And 
I  simply  love  pretty  hats.  I  can't  help  it,  and 
I've  bought  six  new  ones  in  Paris  and,  whatever 
anybody  says,  I  am  going  to  wear  them  when  I 
get  back  to  Moscow." 

I   remember   she   was   wearing   a   particularly 
fetching  one  at  the  time,  with  about  eleven  ostrich 
feathers  on  it,  and  as  she  talked  and  the  feathers 
nodded  above  her  pretty  face,   I  began  to  feel 
positively  hostile  to  the  people  of  Moscow.     What 
happened  when  she  displayed  it  in  the  streets  of 
that  city  of  domes  and  shrines  and  holy  effigies  I 
do  not  know.     The  coquetry  of  that  hat  deserved 
the  tribute  of  a  sympathetic  glance,  but  the  Mus- 
covites are  queer  people,  and  possibly  frowned. 
Anything  may  be  expected  of  people  who  consider 
the  highest  compliment  they  can  pay  to  a  theat- 
rical company  is  to  call  its  members  the  Martyrs 
of  Art.     This  is  the  title  conferred  on  the  actors 
and  actresses  of  the  Moscow  Artistic  Theatre  by 
a  grateful  and  affectionate  public.     The  Martyrs 
work  exceedingly  hard  for  contemptible  salaries 
and  cheerfully  sacrifice  their  financial  interests  to 
those  of  their  art,  because  they  know  that,  were 
the  actors  better  paid,  the  directors  of  the  theatre 
would  be  unable  to  expend  the  large  sums  neces- 
sary for  the  perfect  production  of  several  new 
plays  each  season.     That  they  make  light  of  their 
devotion  may  be  understood  from  the  comments 
they  made  on  a  newspaper  article  I  wrote  about 

93 


My  Slav  Friends 

their  performance  of  The  Blue  Bird,  a  piece  which 
all  Moscow  saw  and  talked  about  long  before  it 
was  acted  in  the  theatres  of  Western  Europe. 
Thinking  the  matter  of  interest  to  British  players 
and  playgoers,  I  mentioned  the  salaries  paid  to 
one  or  two  of  the  chief  performers.  A  friend  of 
mine  showed  some  of  them  the  article.  They 
were  pleased  with  the  praise  it  had  been  a  duty 
to  bestow;  but  the  paragraph  about  finance 
puzzled  them.  "  Why  does  he  speak  about  our 
salaries?  "  they  asked  my  friend.  "  What  inter- 
est can  that  be  to  the  English?  What  interest 
can  it  be  to  anybody?  '  And  in  those  naive 
questions  they  displayed  the  spirit  that  Russians 
expect  to  find  in  men  and  women  engaged  in 
artistic  and  intellectual  pursuits. 

I  once  skimmed  a  book  on  the  profession  of 
letters,  written  by  a  successful  British  novelist. 
It  contained  advice  on  the  acquisition  of  technique, 
the  study  of  grammar,  the  use  of  dictionaries  and 
books  of  synonyms,  and  a  considerable  section  was 
devoted  to  the  purely  business  side  of  the  pro- 
fession. The  author  stated  the  income  which  a 
writer  should  be  able  to  make  by  an  annual  output 
of  two  of  the  sort  of  books  that  publishers  de- 
scribe as  general  literature.  He  was,  however,  at 
pains  to  point  out  that  it  is  more  lucrative  to  write 
novels,  and  the  yearly  sum  to  be  derived  from  this 
industry  by  a  man  who  can  hit  the  public  taste, 
at  the  rate  of  two  thousand  words  a  day,  was 
discussed.  If  my  memory  serves  me,  the  man  of 
letters  was  forbidden  to  value  his  time  at  less  than 

94 


My  Slav  Friends 

ten  shillings  an  hour.  No  silly  pacing  up  and 
down  in  search  of  the  just  word  that  eludes  him  ! 
No  dallying  with  phrases  and  fiddling  efforts  to 
poise  his  sentences  gracefully  !  His  business  is 
to  make  ten  shillingsworth  of  literature  per  hour. 
Indeed,  this  guide  to  the  career  of  letters  might 
be  taken  as  a  model  by  any  butcher  or  baker  or 
candlestick-maker,  who  is  thinking  of  writing  a 
manual  for  the  instruction  of  youths  about  to  enter 
one  of  these  trades. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  book  will  not  be  read 
by  Russians.  It  would  shock  them  profoundly. 
Thousands  of  them,  even  when  they  cannot  speak 
English,  know  one  English  phrase  :  "  Time  is 
Money."  They  believe  it  to  be  the  phrase  that  is 
most  characteristic  of  the  British  people ;  but  when 
they  quote  it  at  one,  it  is  evident  that  they  are 
almost  as  much  amused  by  it  as  by  the  one  other 
phrase  of  our  language  they  have  mastered, 
namely,  "  Kiss  me  Quick."  They  do  not  disapprove 
of  our  energy  in  business,  but  the  idea  of  a  city 
man,  who  leaves  his  home  in  time  to  catch  the 
8.15  and  leaves  his  work  in  time  to  eat  at  seven 
and  sleep  at  ten,  makes  them  shudder.  They 
may  profess  admiration  for  this  strenuous  devo- 
tion, although  their  praise  is  of  the  nature  of  a 
philosopher's  commendation  of  the  energy  of  a 
marmoset  in  a  wheel,  but  nothing  could  be  more 
certain  to  pain  them  and  to  evoke  their  contempt 
than  the  British  novelist's  guide  to  the  profession 
of  letters.  They  would  hold  it  to  be  corrupt, 
blasphemous,  an  abomination.  They  would  say 

95 


My  Slav  Friends 

that  the  man  who  makes  the  writing  of  books  a 
trade,  who  thinks  of  literature  in  terms  of  com- 
merce, is  on  the  level  of  an  acrobat,  as  bad  as  a 
simoniacal  clerk,  and  probably  guilty  of  the  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost. 

In  Russia  the  writer  is  sacred.  He  is  a  prophet 
and  a  priest.  It  is  his  high  vocation  to  bring 
light  to  the  blind,  to  comfort  the  afflicted,  to 
denounce  the  unjust  and  the  tyrant,  to  probe 
the  secrets  of  the  heart,  to  reveal  the  ugliness 
that  beauty  hides  and  to  show  the  loveliness 
veiled  by  sin  and  wretchedness.  We  may  admire 
the  style  of  Turgeniev,  the  psychology  of 
Dostoievsky,  or  the  power  of  describing  the 
human  body  displayed  by  Tolstoi.  Russians 
appreciate  these  qualities,  but  their  admiration 
for  the  three  writers  rests  on  a  different  basis. 
Turgeniev's  hatred  of  serfdom,  the  pitifulness  of 
Dostoievsky,  and  Tolstoi's  ability  to  show  the 
beauty  of  simplicity,  have  gained  them  love 
which  talent  alone  could  never  have  secured. 
That  they  made  money  from  their  books,  well 
and  good;  but  that  they  should  have  made 
money  their  chief  aim  and  allowed  the  hope  of 
profit  to  influence  their  writings  would  be  thought 
intolerable.  The  Russian  ideal  for  a  man  of 
letters  has  been  well  described  by  a  poetess. 
According  to  her  he  is  "  the  buckler  and  the  sword 
of  the  country,  the  source  of  ideas,  the  voice 
and  the  tongue  of  the  poor  and  the  silent,  the 
first  ray  of  the  dawn  of  bright  days/'  These  are 
high  demands;  that  they  have  been  obeyed  can 


My  Slav   Friends 

be  ascertained  from  the  pages  of  Russian  literature. 
At  a  time  when  a  rigorous  censorship  of  the  press 
prevented  the  free  expression  of  public  opinion  in 
the  newspapers  of  the  country,  the  poet  and  the 
novelist  immolated  themselves  on  the  altar  of 
Freedom,  and  the  white  road  to  Siberia  was  worn 
by  their  footsteps. 

"  Leave  father  and  mother.  Build  no  nest,  be 
alone.  Once  and  for  all  extinguish  the  human 
passions  in  thy  soul.  Be  obdurate  to  the  seduc- 
tions of  love,  of  wealth,  of  glory.  Be  holy.  In 
thy  breast  keep  thy  heart  intact  and  pure,  then 
give  it  wholly  to  thy  unhappy  brothers;  where 
thou  hearest  a  lament,  thither  must  thou  go. 
Suffer  more  than  all.  Remain  poor  and  naked. 
And  thou  wilt  be  great  and  the  world  will  be 
humbled  by  thy  reproach/' 

These  words,  which  I  give  in  Mr.  Bernard  Miall's 
translation,  might  have  been  written  by  a  Christian 
mystic ;  they  might  be  palmed  off  on  the  unwary 
as  a  passage  from  the  works  of  St.  John  of  the 
Cross.  But  this  exhortation  was  not  written  in 
the  cloister  or  composed  for  the  edification  of  nuns ; 
it  is  an  appeal  to  the  youth  of  Russia  made  by  a 
man  who  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the  super- 
natural character  of  Christianity.  A  Russian 
may  take  off  the  cross  that  is  hung  round  his 
neck  at  the  font ;  he  cannot  tear  it  from  his 
heart.  He  may  become  the  enemy  of  society,  he 
may  hold  and  propagate  anarchical  principles, 
he  may  be  a  terrorist  and  count  killing  no  murder, 
he  may  commit  hideous  crimes  in  the  holy  name 
H  97 


My   Slav  Friends 


of  Liberty  and  murder  those  who  wield  authority ; 
yet  his  detestable  life  may  be  sublime,  and  his 
immolation  of  self  command  the  reverence  of 
those  who  abhor  his  abominable  doctrines  and 
his  evil  deeds.  This  is  not  the  time  to  tell  tales 
of  revolutionaries;  for  they  are  placing  them- 
selves under  authority,  and  those  who  were  ready 
to  lay  their  lives  down  on  the  scaffold  are  now 
willing  to  die  on  the  battlefield  for  love  of 
Russia. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  enlist/'  said  a  young 
Russian  to  an  English  friend,  whom  he  met  in 
the  streets  of  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  war. 
"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  back  to  Russia 
to  join  the  army,  and  I  am  hoping  I  shall  be 
allowed  to  serve  with  the  French/' 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"  You  have  told  me  that  you  are  an  anarchist,  a 
revolutionary;  and  whenever  I  have  met  you, 
you  have  tried  to  persuade  me  that  your  Govern- 
ment is  the  most  execrable  in  the  world.  What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  change?  ' 

"  The  Fatherland  is  in  danger,"  answered  the 
young  man,  and  went  on  his  way. 

One  of  the  leaders  of  the  Social  Revolutionary 
party,  an  organization  responsible  for  many 
political  crimes,  returned  to  Russia  on  the  out- 
break of  war,  in  order  to  offer  his  services  to  the 
sovereign  whose  authority  he  had  spent  his  life 
in  undermining.  His  adventure  was  quixotic. 
There  are  crimes  that  love  cannot  blot  out  and 
justice  may  not  ignore;  the  unrepentant  prodigal 


My  Slav   Friends 

was  arrested,  condemned  to  undergo  a  suitable 
punishment — and  quickly  pardoned. 

When  revolutionaries  are  exchanging  a  per- 
verted for  a  noble  idea  of  patriotism,  it  is  well  to 
be  silent  about  the  crimes  that  must  be  adduced 
if  the  splendour  of  their  self-sacrifice  is  to  be 
properly  understood.  The  spirit  of  these  mis- 
taken men  and  women  is  shown  in  the  hymn 
they  sing  at  the  graveside  of  a  revolutionary  : 
"You  have  given  up  all,"  runs  the  refrain; 
"  honour  and  love  and  life  itself;  farewell,  brother, 
your  end  is  noble."  And  these  words  are  a  just 
summary  of  the  life  of  many  a  pious  assassin. 
I  have  told  in  another  book  the  story  of  Catharine 
Breshkovsky,  a  woman  of  rank  who  left  her 
husband,  and  abandoned  everything  that  makes 
life  sweet  to  most  of  us,  in  order  to  join  the 
revolutionary  ranks.  I  cannot  refrain  from  calling 
her  to  mind  again.  For  nearly  half  a  century 
she  has  been  an  agitator,  in  constant  fear  of 
arrest,  or  a  prisoner,  or  an  exile.  She  waits  for 
the  approach  of  the  deliverer  in  a  desolate  Siberian 
village,  and,  when  he  comes,  no  more  fitting 
epitaph  can  be  found  to  mark  her  resting-place 
than  the  words  of  the  revolutionary  hymn. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  Russian  cabman  ?  He 
is  an  odd  creature,  dressed  in  a  robe  like  a  dressing- 
gown,  girded  with  a  narrow  cincture  of  brilliant 
chintz  or  velvet.  You  may  call  him  your  little 
brother,  or  your  little  father,  but,  all  the  same, 
you  will  find  it  difficult  to  realize  that  he  is 
a  human  being  with  a  soul.  He  appears  to 

99 


My  Slav   Friends 

have  the  intellect  of  a  mollusc.  You  may  find 
him  fast  asleep  on  the  box  of  his  cab  at  a  street 
corner,  and  have  to  dig  him  in  the  ribs  in  order  to 
induce  him  to  wake  up  and  take  you  on  your 
way.  If  he  happens  to  drop  off  to  sleep  again, 
while  he  is  driving,  you  may  hit  him  behind, 
fairly  hard,  for  he  is  stuffed  out  with  clothes 
and  padding,  like  a  pin-cushion.  He  will  not 
swear,  he  will  not  even  murmur  at  your  vigorous 
thrusts.  He  will  possibly  drive  you  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  you  want  to 
go,  because  he  does  not  know  the  way  and  it 
has  not  occurred  to  him  to  inquire.  He  may 
stop  and  say  hopelessly  that  he  cannot  find  the 
house  you  want.  You  may  storm  at  him,  call 
him  pet  names,  swear  at  him ;  and  he  will  pay  no 
more  attention  to  you  than  if  he  were  a  cabbage. 
And  now  this  queer  creature  has  at  last  convinced 
me  that  he  has  a  soul.  Here  is  the  proof  :  on 
the  igth  of  December,  1914,  all  the  cabmen  of  a 
provincial  town  gave  their  takings  to  a  fund  for 
the  assistance  of  wounded  soldiers.  They  carried 
collecting-boxes,  slung  round  their  necks,  and 
asked  those  who  employed  them  to  put  their 
fares  in  these  sealed  boxes,  which  were  to  be 
opened  by  the  organizers  of  the  fund.  And 
their  sacrifice  was  not  a  light  one;  for  Russian 
cabmen  work  exceedingly  long  hours  and  earn 
little.  I  have  swaggered  along  a  mile  of  road 
in  a  carriage  and  pair  from  a  railway  station  to 
a  provincial  hotel  for  the  sum  of  fivepence. 
And  why  write  about  these  trivialities  of 

100 


AN   OLD   BELIEVER. 


My  Slav   Friends 

sacrifice  at  a  time  when  a  thousand  noble  deeds 
are  being  done  every  day?  I  have  written  of 
the  cabmen's  charity  because  it  is  an  indication 
of  the  temper  of  the  common  people  of  Russia. 
And  there  are  other  straws  to  show  the  way  the 
wind  blows.  The  poor  folk  of  Petrograd  deprived 
themselves  of  their  garments,  in  order  to  send 
them  to  the  Poles  and  Jews  who  had  been  reduced 
to  misery  by  the  German  invasion. 

"  We  have  not  sorted  out  the  things/'  said  one 
of  the  Russian  ladies,  who  came  to  Varshava  with 
the  gifts  of  the  citizens  of  Petrograd.  "  We 
have  brought  everything,  just  as  it  was  sent  to 
us,  so  that  you  will  be  able  to  see  that  there  are 
people  who  have  sent  their  last  shirt." 

There  are  no  superfluities  in  the  Spartan  homes 
of  the  Russian  peasants;  but  in  many  a  village 
bedding  and  clothing  has  been  collected  to  send 
to  the  front,  mattresses  and  sheepskin  coats, 
more  lovely  to  the  gaze  of  angels  than  cheques 
for  a  thousand  pounds  sent  to  patriotic  funds  by 
people  who  will  not  lie  less  softly  at  night  for 
their  becoming  generosity  nor  feel  the  cold  more 
keenly. 

The  Russian  peasant  may  be  ignorant,  he  may 
ask  you  how  the  crops  looked  as  you  came  from 
New  York  to  England,  he  may  be  superstitious; 
but  his  history  shows,  not  merely  that  he  has  a 
good  heart,  but  that  he  is  capable  of  the  most 
exalted  heroism.  No  martyrs  have  shown  greater 
constancy  and  fearlessness  than  the  Old  Believers, 
almost  all  of  whom  were  peasants,  in  the  persecu- 

TOT 


My  Slav   Friends 

tion  which  disgraced  the  regency  of  Sophia  and  the 
early  rule  of  Peter  the  Great.  The  Old  Believers 
disputed  no  doctrine  of  the  Orthodox  Church; 
but  they  objected  to  ceremonial  changes,  made 
by  the  learned  and  relentless  Patriarch  Nikon, 
and  passionately  refused  to  tolerate  them  for 
reasons  which  could  only  commend  themselves  to 
the  ignorant.  A  controversy,  and  then  a  persecu- 
tion, arose  about  the  manner  of  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  the  spelling  of  the  Holy  Name,  the 
shape  of  the  cross  on  the  sacramental  bread,  and 
about  the  question  whether  Alleluia  should  be 
sung  twice  or  thrice,  whether  an  ecclesiastical 
procession  should  march  westward,  with  the  sun, 
or  eastward,  against  the  sun.  And  in  defence 
of  ancient  ceremonies  and  a  corrupt  tradition  of 
orthography,  thousands  of  peasants,  both  men 
and  women,  died  on  the  scaffold  or  at  the 
stake,  and  scores  of  thousands  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  torturers  whose  cruelty  might  have 
made  a  Nero  envious  or  inclined  a  Torquemada 
to  clemency.  And  no  auto-da-fe  was  as  horrible 
as  the  voluntary  holocaust  of  themselves  that 
the  Old  Believers  made  in  their  passion  for 
martyrdom. 

There  is  an  island  in  Lake  Ladoga,  on  which 
stands  an  ancient  monastery.  In  1688,  in  the 
year  in  which  William  of  Orange  landed  at  Torbay 
as  the  defender  of  the  Protestant  principles  of 
England,  some  two  thousand  Old  Believers,  who 
had  been  hiding  from  the  persecutors  in  the 
snowy  forests  that  border  the  great  lake,  marched 

102 


My  Slav  Friends 

over  its  frozen  surface  to  this  monastery,  drove 
away  the  monks,  and  prepared  to  ascend  to 
heaven  by  chariots  of  fire.  They  lived  undis- 
turbed on  the  island  for  several  weeks,  and  wor- 
shipped in  the  wooden  church  of  the  convent. 
There  they  were  free  to  cross  themselves  in  the 
manner  of  their  forefathers,  with  two  fingers 
placed  together,  instead  of  in  the  new-fangled, 
pinch-of-snuff  way,  three  fingers  together,  the 
abominable  innovation  of  Nikon.  And  the  poor 
souls  stored  much  inflammable  matter  in  the1 
church,  in  preparation  for  the  coming  sacrifice. 
When,  at  last,  soldiers  from  Novgorod  came  in 
the  name  of  the  inquisitors,  these  ignorant 
peasants  locked  themselves  in  the  church,  set 
fire  to  it,  and  perished  in  the  flames.  The  tragedy 
was  repeated  in  the  same  place  and  in  the  same 
manner  a  few  years  later.  It  is  said  that  ten 
thousand  persons  perished  thus  in  the  north  of 
Russia  alone.  There  is  no  more  hideous  example 
of  fanaticism  than  this.  There  is  no  record  of 
self-sacrifice  more  marvellous. 

And  are  we  to  be  expected  to  admire  such 
monstrous  behaviour?  I  dislike  giving  a  direct 
answer  to  a  question  of  that  kind.  Allow  me, 
instead,  to  tell  a  tale. 

"  Ai  yi  yi !  '  cried  Apostle  Peter,  when  he 
opened  the  door  of  Paradise  and  saw  the  peasants 
of  the  islet,  that  lies  in  the  midst  of  Ladoga, 
stepping  out  of  their  flaming  chariots.  "  Who 
are  you?  ' 

103 


My  Slav   Friends 

"  We  are  martyrs/'  said  the  two  thousand 
peasants. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  Apostle  Peter.  "  We're  not 
expecting  any.  Go  away  at  once/' 

"  We  burnt  ourselves  alive,"  said  the  peasants. 

"  A  deadly  sin,"  said  Apostle  Peter  tartly, 
and  began  to  push  the  gate  to. 

But  one  of  the  peasants  was  too  sharp  for 
him.  He  got  his  foot  inside  the  door,  so  that 
it  would  not  shut,  and  he  shouted  through  the 
chink. 

"  We  refused  to  make  the  accursed  pinch-of- 
snuff  cross,"  he  cried. 

"  We  refused  to  spell  the  name  of  the  Heavenly 
Tsar  with  an  '  e ',"  shouted  all  the  other  peasants. 

And  when  he  heard  these  things,  Apostle  Peter 
was  so  astonished  that  he  opened  the  door  again. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  From  the  holy  Russian  land,"  said  the  two 
thousand  peasants. 

"  A  queer  place,"  said  Apostle  Peter.  "  You 
pay  no  attention  to  my  successors  on  earth  and 
the  consequence  is  all  this  nonsense.  Driving  up 
here  in  flaming  chariots  !  I  don't  know  what 
we're  coming  to."  And  he  was  very  angry. 

"  We  burnt  candles  before  your  icon  every 
Saturday  night,"  said  the  peasants. 

"  That  makes  a  difference,"  said  Apostle  Peter 
in  a  kinder  voice.  "  You  can  stay  where  you 
are,  while  I  see  if  anything  can  be  done." 

So  the  two  thousand  peasants,  who  had  burnt 
themselves  alive,  stayed  outside  the  gate  of 

104 


My  Slav   Friends 

Heaven,  and  Apostle  Peter  sent  an  angel  to  fetch 
a  couple  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church. 

"  Here  is  a  pack  of  Russians,"  said  Apostle 
Peter,  when  the  angel  came  back  with  Blessed 
Vassili  and  Blessed  Ivan  of  the  Golden  Mouth, 
"  and  not  a  grain  of  sense  between  them.  They 
burnt  themselves  alive  and  believe  they  are 
martyrs.  I  shan't  let  them  in  unless  they  drop 
their  silly  pretensions.  Talk  to  them." 

So  Blessed  Vassili,  the  Father  of  Monks,  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  heaven  and  preached  to  the 
peasants  for  three  hours,  showing  how  foolish 
their  conduct  had  been.  And  they  all  stood  with 
their  mouths  open  and  listened. 

"  We  are  martyrs  and  we  want  to  come  in," 
they  said,  when  he  had  done;  for  his  learning  is 
so  great  that  they  had  not  understood  a  single 
word  he  had  said. 

Then  Blessed  Ivan  of  the  Golden  Mouth  opened 
the  eighty-third  volume  of  his  works,  which  an 
angel  had  fetched  from  the  library,  and  began  to 
read  them  a  sermon.  While  he  was  doing  this, 
it  so  happened  that  Nicholas  the  Wonder- Worker 
passed  by,  and  he  asked  what  was  going  on. 

"  Blessed  Ivan  of  the  Golden  Mouth  is  teaching 
common-sense  to  two  thousand  Russians,"  said 
an  angel. 

Then  Nicholas  the  Wonder- Worker  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  I  am  a  Wonder- Worker,"  he  said,  "  and  I've 
never  been  able  to  do  that,"  and  he  hurried  away 
to  speak  about  the  matter  to  the  Most  Holy 

105 


My  Slav   Friends 


Dyeva  Marya,  whose  blue  mantle  covers  her  wise 
and  her  foolish  children  alike. 

And  when  the  Wonder-Worker  stood  before 
the  throne  of  the  Most  Holy  Dyeva  Marya,  he 
crossed  himself  three  times  and  bowed  three 
times  and,  having  gained  permission  to  speak,  he 
related  the  tale  of  the  two  thousand  peasants  of 
the  islet  that  lies  in  the  midst  of  Ladoga. 

"  And  now  that  they  have  come  to  the  door  of 
Paradise/'  he  ended,  "  Apostle  Peter  won't  let 
them  in,  until  Blessed  Vassili  and  Blessed  Ivan 
of  the  Golden  Mouth  have  taught  them  wisdom/' 

Then  the  Most  Holy  Dyeva  Marya  whispered 
to  Archangel  Gabriel,  and  he  flew  to  the  gate  of 
Heaven  to  stop  the  Golden  Mouth  of  Ivan  and 
to  tell  Apostle  Peter  that  he  was  to  let  the  two 
thousand  peasants  come  in. 

"  You  won't  get  any  palms,"  said  Apostle 
Peter,  who  is  very  obstinate,  as  the  peasants 
pushed  each  other  through  the  gateway. 

"  Because  you're  not  martyrs,"  said  Blessed 
Vassili. 

"  As  I  have  established  in  the  hundred  and 
twenty-third  sermon  of  the  eighty-third  volume 
of  my  works,"  said  Ivan  of  the  Golden  Mouth. 

And  when  the  peasants  came  into  the  presence 
of  the  Most  Holy  Dyeva  Marya,  they  crossed 
themselves  seven  times  with  two  fingers  and 
bowed  seven  times  to  the  earth. 

"  O  Higher  than  the  Cherubim  !  More  lovely 
than  the  Seraphim !  '  they  cried,  "  we  are 
martyrs." 

106 


My  Slav   Friends 

Then  the  Most  Holy  Dyeva  Marya,  who  is 
wiser  than  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  and  wiser 
than  the  Apostles,  smiled  sweetly ;  and  she  placed 
in  the  hands  of  the  two  thousand  peasants  palms 
that  were  made  of  gold. 

The  moral  of  this  pretty  tale  is  doubtless 
excellent,  but  I  think  it  likely  that  most  people 
who  read  this  book  will  be  inclined  to  argue  that, 
however  good  may  have  been  the  motives  of  the 
peasants  who  burnt  themselves  alive,  or  of  the 
women  who  left  their  husbands  to  live  like  nuns 
or  to  revolutionize  society,  it  would  be  easier 
to  admire  the  virtues  and  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice 
displayed  by  the  Russian  people  were  it  more 
practical  and  less  exotic. 

Just  as  a  stream  of  running  water  is  a  power 
that  may  be  harnessed  and  employed  to  bring 
prosperity  to  the  country-side  through  which  it 
flows;  so  the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  Russian 
people  is  a  force  that  may  be  applied  to  the 
practical  advantage  of  the  nation,  by  him  who 
has  the  skill  to  direct  it,  and  has,  indeed,  proved 
itself  to  be  of  supreme  value  in  crises  of  the 
national  life.  This  is  the  force  that  deprived 
Napoleon  of  a  triumph  and  wrapt  his  soldiers 
in  winding-sheets  of  snow.  This  is  the  force  that 
swept  aside  the  opposition  of  the  Crown  to  a 
reform  of  the  constitution  and  put  into  motion 
the  machinery  of  parliamentary  life.  This  is 
the  force  which  has  driven  drunkenness  away 
from  the  holy  Russian  land  and  compelled  nations, 

107 


My  Slav   Friends 


more  skilled  in  the  arts  of  civilization,  to  admire 
a  sacrifice  to  patriotism  they  are  incapable  of 
imitating. 

It  was  Rostoptchin,  Governor  of  Moscow,  who 
conceived  the  idea  of  making  the  ancient  capital 
a  desert  in  order  to  thwart  the  ambition  of 
Napoleon  and  to  save  Russia  from  a  disastrous 
peace ;  but  it  was  the  willingness  and  the  ability 
of  the  citizens  to  sacrifice  themselves  and  their 
substance  that  allowed  him  to  prosecute  a  plan 
which  was  as  desperate  as  it  was  valiant.  He 
had  heard  the  shout  that  went  up  from  the  nobles 
of  the  city,  when  the  Emperor  had  appealed  to 
them.  "  Ask  what  you  will.  We  offer  you  all. 
Take  it."  He  knew  the  immense  sacrifices  already 
made  by  the  merchants,  who  had  poured  their 
money  into  the  public  treasury.  He  counted  on 
the  spirit  of  detachment  to  be  found  in  the  common 
people.  That  he  did  not  demand  sacrifices  that 
he  was  not  prepared  to  make  himself  may  be 
judged  from  the  message  to  the  invaders  he  wrote 
on  the  ruins  of  his  country  house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  city  :  "  For  eight  years  I  have 
been  engaged  in  beautifying  this  country-side,  and 
I  have  lived  here  happily  in  the  bosom  of  my 
family.  The  inhabitants  of  these  lands,  seventeen 
hundred  and  twenty  in  number,  leave  them  at 
your  approach,  and  I  myself  set  fire  to  my  house, 
so  that  it  may  not  be  defiled  by  your  presence. 
Frenchmen  !  I  have  abandoned  to  you  my  two 
Moscow  houses,  with  furniture  worth  half  a 
million  roubles;  here  you  will  find  only  ashes." 

108 


My  Slav  Friends 

While  the  French  armies  were  marching  on 
Moscow,  this  indomitable  man  ordered  the  in- 
habitants to  leave.  They  obeyed  without  hesita- 
tion and  without  complaint.  The  palaces  of 
nobles  and  the  warehouses  of  merchants  were 
left  to  be  pillaged  by  looters  and  gutted  by  fire. 
The  humbler  citizens  passed  out  of  the  city  in 
long  processions,  led  by  priests,  who  bore  crosses 
and  sacred  icons.  And  the  fugitives  sang  hymns 
as  they  left  their  homes  to  seek  precarious  shelter 
in  the  villages  of  the  surrounding  country. 

"  Quel  evenement  invraisemblable  !  "  exclaimed 
Napoleon,  when  he  was  told  that  Moscow  had 
been  evacuated  by  its  inhabitants. 

He  stood  on  the  heights  that  dominate  the 
capital,  and  he  could  not  persuade  himself  that 
the  fantastic  city  of  a  Persian  tale,  whose  golden 
domes  glittered  in  the  autumn  sunshine,  was  a 
desert. 

"  Allez,  amenez-moi  les  boyards,"  he  com- 
manded. 

The  order  could  not  be  executed.  The  de- 
scendants of  the  boyars  had  gone.  No  wreaths 
of  smoke  hung  above  the  enchanted  city.  No 
hum  of  life  came  from  within  its  walls.  The 
hearths  were  cold  and  the  streets  empty.  A 
quarter  of  a  million  citizens  had  left  their  homes 
and  gone  away.  Only  the  dregs  of  the  popula- 
tion, some  fifteen  hundred  souls,  remained.  Be- 
neath the  spell  of  the  golden  symbols  of  sacrifice, 
that  rise  above  its  splendour,  Moscow  lay  still. 

"  Better  burn  it,"  said  some  merchants  to 

109 


My  Slav  Friends 

Count  Rostoptchin,  when  he  told  them  that  the 
French  would  occupy  the  city. 

Was  it  by  accident  that  a  fire  raged  in  the 
heart  of  Moscow  on  the  night  of  Napoleon's 
entry  ?  Was  it  by  chance  or  by  design  that, 
when  the  French  believed  themselves  to  be 
masters  of  the  flames,  a  conflagration  burst  out 
again  and  enveloped  the  city.  Was  it  patriotism 
that  kindled  the  flames  which  swept  the  Kremlin 
and  drove  the  baffled  Emperor  from  the  palace 
of  the  Tsars,  within  whose  walls  he  had  tried  to 
mitigate  the  bitterness  of  failure  by  nursing  the 
illusions  of  a  conqueror's  vanity  ? 

It  is  unlikely  that  these  questions  will  ever  be 
satisfactorily  answered.  But  whether  the  burning 
of  Moscow  was  deliberate  or  accidental,  the  con- 
sidered deed  of  patriots  or  the  work  of  the  rabble, 
the  glory  of  the  citizens  who  left  their  homes 
and  their  substance  to  fate  cannot  be  taken  from 
them. 

"  There  is  always  a  way  of  being  useful  to 
one's  country,  when  one  hears  the  voice  that 
cries  :  Sacrifice  thyself  for  my  salvation.  Then 
one  despises  dangers,  overcomes  obstacles,  shuts 
one's  eyes  to  the  future ;  but  the  instant  that  one 
troubles  about  oneself  and  begins  to  calculate, 
one  does  nothing  worth  doing  and  sinks  back 
into  the  vulgar  crowd." 

These  are  words  written  by  Rostoptchin,  eleven 
years  after  he  superintended  the  evacuation  of 

no 


My  Slav  Friends 


Moscow.  The  events  of  1915  show  us  that  the 
peoples  of  the  Russian  empire  can  still  stand 
the  test  of  the  Governor's  lofty  standard.  A 
thousand  deeds  of  heroism  on  the  battlefield 
and  in  enforced  retreat,  and  the  exodus,  that 
leads  to  no  promised  land,  from  towns  and  villages 
that  they  themselves  have  given  to  the  flames, 
of  an  army  of  old  men  and  women  and  children 
with  a  front  of  a  thousand  miles,  show  that  the 
spirit  of  the  Muscovites  of  a  century  ago  still 
lives  in  the  hearts  of  the  Russian  people  and 
inspires  Poles  and  Lithuanians  and  Letts  to  make 
a  supreme  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  Freedom. 


in 


CHAPTER   VII 

IT  is  possible,  and  even  probable,  that  I  may 
be  told  that  in  the  last  chapter  I  have  not  been 
true  to  a  principle  which  I  laid  down  earlier  in 
this  book. 

'  You  have  been  idealizing  the  Russians/'  it 
may  be  said,  "  you  have  been  showing  Russia  in 
the  rosy  light  you  pretend  to  dislike,  you  have 
been  rhapsodizing;  in  a  word,  you  have  been 
writing  in  a  manner  which  you  complain  of  when 
other  people  adopt  it,  and,  moreover,  you  have 
been  dwelling  exclusively  on  qualities  which  the 
Russians  make  out  are  natural  to  them,  and  not 
a  single  word  have  you  said  of  the  achievements 
for  which  they  consider  that  they  ought  to  be 
given  some  credit/' 

Well,  naturally,  as  I  want  you  to  like  my 
Russian  friends,  I  have  attempted  to  indicate 
some  of  their  good  qualities  in  introducing  them. 
It  is  the  common  practice.  I  am  presented  to 
Julia  and  told  that  she  plays  the  violin  delight- 
fully; it  is  only  when  I  say  that  I  find  her  per- 
fectly charming  that  I  am  told  it  is  a  thousand 
pities  that  she  has  such  a  vile  temper.  Tullus, 
whose  meanness  is  proverbial,  is  introduced  to 
me  as  a  person  who  is  interested  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  working  classes,  and  Publius,  the 

112 


My  Slav  Friends 

epicure,  as  an  authority  on  cuneiform  inscriptions. 
I  have  done  nothing  worse  than  conform  to  an 
established  and,  in  my  opinion,  good  rule  govern- 
ing social  intercourse.  But  I  should  not  like  you 
to  run  away  with  the  idea  that  all  Russian  peasant 
women  are  like  Martha,  who  gave  the  savings  of 
a  lifetime  to  help  the  Tsar  to  fight  the  Germans, 
or  that  all  ballerini  are  prepared  to  put  art  before 
money.  It  can  hardly  be  expected  that  I  should 
enlarge  at  great  length  on  the  faults  of  the 
Russians;  but  because  I  do  not  want  you  to 
be  disappointed  if  you  go  to  Russia,  or  if  you 
make  Russian  acquaintances,  or  if  you  happen 
to  marry  a  Russian,  I  propose  to  indicate  that 
the  Russians  are  no  more  perfect  than  we  are. 

A  short  time  ago  I  heard  an  Englishwoman 
make  a  charming,  a  graceful,  speech  about 
Russia.  She  stated  that  the  characteristic  of 
the  Russian  people  was  pity.  And,  when  I 
heard  her  say  that,  I  wondered  if  she  had  ever 
read  Turgeniev's  Tales  from  a  Sportsman's  Note- 
book. Those  tales  show  the  pitifulness  of  one 
Russian,  Turgeniev,  in  an  exposure  of  the  pitiless- 
ness  of  a  number  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  He 
wrote  of  Russian  life  as  it  was  before  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  serfs,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  which 
was  celebrated  in  1911,  and  in  his  tales,  as  the 
Vicomte  de  Vogue  has  said,  there  is  the  murmur 
of  a  few  poor  souls.  Do  you  remember  the  tale 
of  Arina,  whose  owners  would  not  allow  her 
to  marry  the  man  she  loved,  because  she  dressed 
her  mistress's  hair  so  well  and  the  lady  disliked 
i  113 


My  Slav   Friends 

having  a  married  maid  to  wait  on  her?  or  the 
incident  of  the  lacquey  who  was  to  be  flogged 
for  neglecting  to  warm  the  wine  he  served  to 
his  master  ? 

It  was  the  quality  of  pity  that  drove  Turgeniev, 
the  son  of  a  country  gentleman  and  proprietor  of 
serfs,  from  Russia.  Let  him  speak  for  himself. 

"  I  had  either  to  submit/'  he  writes,  "  to  go 
quietly  along  the  common  path,  the  beaten  road, 
or  to  root  myself  up  at  a  single  blow,  to  push 
away  from  me  everything  and  everybody,  even 
at  the  risk  of  losing  many  things  that  were  dear 
to  my  heart.  That  was  the  part  I  chose  ...  I 
threw  myself  head  foremost  into  the  '  German 
Ocean/  which  was  to  purify  and  to  regenerate 
me,  and  when,  at  last,  I  came  out  of  those  waters, 
I  found  myself  an  Occidental,  and  so  I  have  always 
remained.  ...  I  could  not  breathe  the  same  air, 
live  in  the  presence  of  that  which  I  abhorred; 
perhaps  I  had  not  enough  empire  over  myself, 
enough  force  of  character.  I  had,  at  any  cost, 
to  get  away  from  my  enemy,  in  order  to  deal 
him  surer  blows  from  a  distance.  In  my  eyes 
that  enemy  had  a  certain  aspect,  bore  a  definite 
name  :  my  enemy  was  serfdom.  Under  that  name 
I  grouped  and  put  together  everything  against 
which  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  struggle  to  the 
very  end,  with  which  I  had  sworn  never  to  make 
peace.  That  was  my  Hannibal's  oath,  and  I  was 
not  the  only  one  to  make  it  then.  I  went  to  the 
West  in  order  to  fulfil  my  oath  the  better/' 

And  be  it  noticed  that  Turgeniev  left  the  land, 

114 


My   Slav   Friends 

that  had  been  his  spiritual  home,  when  he  saw 
that  its  soul  was  withering  in  the  joy  of  victory. 
After  1870  he  made  his  home  in  France. 

The  low  key  in  which  Turgeniev  pitched  his 
tales  was  not  due  to  the  instinct  of  an  artist 
alone;  he  was  compelled  to  adopt  it  in  order  to 
fool  the  censors.  The  little  tales  appeared  in  the 
pages  of  a  review  during  a  period  of  three  years. 
The  beauty  of  the  author's  style  drew  attention 
to  them,  and  so  cautious  was  he  that  even  those 
in  sympathy  with  his  ideas  did  not  at  first  realize 
that  his  aim  was  not  merely  an  artistic  one.  It 
was  only  when  the  tales  were  published  in  a  volume 
that  the  public  grasped  the  fact  that  Turgeniev 
had  written  a  most  powerful  indictment  of  serf- 
dom. Those  who  unburdened  their  souls  by 
denunciation  of  the  system  found  that  their 
writings  could  not  be  published.  Here,  for 
example,  is  a  speech  from  a  play,  written  by 
Byelinsky,  the  great  critic,  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  the  production  of  which  was  forbidden — 

"  Who  gave  this  destructive  right  to  some 
people  of  enslaving  under  their  authority  the 
will  of  other  people  like  themselves,  and  of 
depriving  them  of  the  sacred  right  of  liberty? 
Who  permitted  them  to  defy  the  rights  of  nature 
and  humanity?  A  master  can  for  enjoyment 
and  recreation  skin  his  slave,  can  sell  him  like 
cattle,  or  can  exchange  him  for  a  dog,  a  horse, 
or  a  cow,  separate  him  for  a  whole  lifetime  from 
his  father,  mother,  brothers,  and  sisters,  and 


My  Slav   Friends 


from  all  that  he  holds  dear.  Merciful  God  !  did 
your  wise  hand  bring  into  this  world  these  reptiles, 
these  crocodiles,  these  tigers  that  nourish  them- 
selves on  the  flesh  and  bones  of  their  neighbours, 
and  drink  like  water  their  blood  and  tears?  ' 

A  couplet  from  Griboyedov's  famous  comedy, 
written  about  1820— 

His  oldest  servants,  who  had  served  him  well, 
Just  for  a  pair  of  greyhounds  he  would  sell, 

refers  to  an  actual  occurrence,  the  exchange  of 
four  servants,  who  had  been  in  his  service  thirty 
years,  by  a  General  Ismailov  for  four  dogs,  an 
incident  which  shows  the  heartlessness  which 
sometimes  characterized  the  proprietors  of  serfs. 

Nowadays  people  go  to  see  a  play,  called 
Serfs,  in  order  to  understand  what  Russian  life 
was  like  under  the  old  conditions,  and  they  tell 
one  tales  of  the  way  in  which  their  grandparents 
treated  their  slaves. 

"  My  grandfather  once  had  the  contents  of  a 
samovar  of  boiling  water  tipped  over  a  footman, 
to  punish  him  for  spilling  a  little  water  from  it 
on  the  drawing-room  floor,"  said  a  Russian  ac- 
quaintance to  me ;  and  she  was  not  an  old  woman, 
she  was,  in  fact,  hardly  more  than  thirty. 

The  memoirs,  the  letters,  of  the  years  imme- 
diately preceding  the  Emancipation  of  the  Serfs, 
the  records  of  the  courts  of  justice,  the  writings 
of  foreign  observers,  might  be  drawn  on  to  show 
that  Turgeniev  did  not  paint  the  darkest  shadows 

116 


My  Slav   Friends 

in  the  melancholy  picture  of  Russian  life  he  has 
given  us  in  the  Sportsman's  tales.1 

The  Emancipation  of  the  Serfs  took  place  in 
1861,  fifty-five  years  ago.  The  great  reform 
made  by  the  Saviour  Tsar,  Alexander  II,  has 
changed  the  face  of  Russian  society.  Gone  are 
the  splendid  equipages  with  postillions,  that  made 
the  streets  of  Petrograd  brilliant  little  more  than 
half  a  century  ago.  Gone  are  the  shabby  carriages 
and  half-fed  horses,  which  pride  of  birth  com- 
pelled the  impoverished  nobles  to  maintain;  now 
generals  in  uniform  may  be  seen  haggling  with 
cabmen  outside  the  theatres  and  the  houses  of 
the  wealthy.  Gone  are  the  crowds  of  lacqueys 
and  maidservants,  that  once  filled  the  houses 
of  the  great  nobles.  Gone  are  the  domestic 
orchestras  and  troupes  of  actors  and  dancers.  No 
longer  is  a  foreigner  distressed  by  hearing  that 
a  footman  is  to  be  beaten  for  dropping  a  dish, 
or  amused  by  seeing  a  servant  made  to  stand 
in  a  corner  during  dinner  as  a  punishment  for 
spilling  the  wine.  Gone  with  the  serfs  are  oppor- 
tunities for  the  exhibition  of  cruelty  and  tyranny 
and  inducements  to  the  display  of  the  worst 
qualities  of  the  heart. 

The  abolition  of  serfdom  has  given  the  lower 
classes  of  Russia  the  dignity  which  freedom  alone 
can  bestow,  and  it  has  deprived  the  upper  classes 
of  a  power  which  tended  to  debase  them;  but  I 

1  The  history  of  the  lower  classes  of  Russia  and  of  the 
Emancipation  should  be  studied  in  Professor  Mayor's  admir- 
able volumes,  entitled  An  Economic  History  of  Russia. 

117 


My  Slav   Friends 

would  not  care  to  hazard  the  opinion  that  this 
great  change  in  the  structure  of  Russian  society 
has  wrought  so  great  a  change  in  the  character 
of  the  Russians  that  they  deserve  to  be  singled 
out  among  the  nations  of  Europe  as  a  people 
peculiarly  endowed  with  the  quality  of  pity. 
And  to  argue  from  the  pitifulness  of  Byelinsky 
and  Turgeniev,  from  the  pitifulness  of  Dostoievsky, 
that  their  fellow-countrymen  possess  this  beautiful 
quality  in  so  high  a  degree  that  we  should  associate 
the  word  pity  with  the  Russians,  just  as  we  used 
to  associate  the  word  frivolity  with  the  French, 
is  not  only  unsound,  but  exceedingly  short- 
sighted. Indeed,  were  I  to  want  to  make  out 
that  the  Russians  were  harsh  and  pitiless  and 
heartless,  I  should  find  a  mine  of  arguments 
with  which  to  bolster  up  my  contention  in  the 
writings  of  the  authors  I  have  just  mentioned. 
But  I  have  no  inclination  to  perform  such  a 
foolish  feat,  nor  have  I  a  hazardous  position  to 
bolster  up.  I  have  at  the  moment  no  higher 
ambition  than  to  convince  the  reader  that  the 
Russians  are  very  much  like  ourselves.  In  Russia, 
as  in  England,  and  as  in  any  other  country  of 
Europe,  there  are  pitiful  people  and  pitiless 
people,  and  people  who  are  sometimes  one  and 
sometimes  the  other.  Is  the  policeman  pitiful 
when  he  fills  his  pockets  with  fruit  from  a  poor 
old  apple-woman's  basket  and  does  not  pay  her 
a  kopeck?  Is  the  same  man  pitiless  when  he 
picks  up  a  drunkard  from  the  ground,  puts  him 
tenderly  into  a  cab,  and  sends  him  home?  We 

118 


My  Slav  Friends 


sometimes  describe  other  people  by  a  happy,  if 
inelegant  expression,  and  say  they  are  queer 
mixtures.  When  we  are  very  young,  we  cannot 
believe  it  to  be  true  that  the  clergyman  who 
preaches  on  Sundays  is  a  trial  to  his  wife;  we 
are  amazed  to  hear  that  somebody  saw  the 
respectable  mayor  slightly  inebriated  in  Picca- 
dilly; and  our  faith  in  human  nature  is  tem- 
porarily lost  when  we  learn  that  the  amiable 
man  who  drove  us  out  in  his  dogcart  has  been 
arrested  for  fraud,  and  why  it  is  that  Uncle  John, 
who  used  to  give  us  half-sovereigns,  is  never 
spoken  of.  We  hear  that  all  these  people  are 
queer  mixtures.  And  the  older  we  grow  and  the 
more  we  see  of  the  world  the  wider  becomes  the 
application  of  the  term,  until  at  last  we  only 
continue  to  prefix  the  noun  with  an  adjective, 
which  has  ceased  to  have  any  significance,  from 
force  of  habit.  We  have  discovered  that  most 
people  are  mixtures,  including  ourselves.  Well, 
the  Russians  are  mixtures,  just  as  we  are. 

And  when  I  take  up  the  Russian  papers  now, 
nothing  strikes  me  more  than  the  extraordinary 
similarity  between  the  Russians  and  ourselves  in 
time  of  war.  The  determination  to  go  on  with 
the  war  until  Germany  is  crushed  unites  them  as 
it  does  us.  But  they  cannot  forget  their  under- 
lying differences  any  more  than  we  can.  Writers 
in  Russian  newspapers  of  opposed  opinions  are 
as  vitriolic  in  their  expressions  of  opinion  as 
writers  in  the  Star  and  the  Evening  News  on  the 
question  of  conscription.  And  the  Russian  ladies 

119 


My  Slav  Friends 

who  want  to  "do  their  bit  "  seem,  according  to 
Russian  testimony,  to  be  quite  as  enthusiastic 
and  sometimes,  I  am  afraid  it  must  be  admitted, 
quite  as  much  in  the  way  as  some  English  ladies. 
When  the  first  wounded  men  arrived  in  Petrograd, 
fashionable  women  rushed  to  the  hospitals  with 
all  sorts  of  presents,  chocolates  and  cakes  and 
even  ten-shilling  bottles  of  scent.  And  the 
soldiers  were  very  pleased.  They  ate  the  sweet- 
meats and  cakes,  and  the  scent  was  stowed  away 
to  take  to  the  village.  And  they  were  dreadfully 
bored  with  all  the  questions  those  charming 
women  asked.  The  Russian  writer,  from  whom  I 
learnt  all  this,  gave  a  few  samples ;  it  is  unnecessary 
to  repeat  them,  for  they  were  exactly  the  same 
questions  that  charming  women  asked  British 
Tommies  in  London  hospitals.  The  novelty  of 
visiting  soldiers  wore  off  and,  besides,  the  visitors 
began  to  feel  that,  after  all,  they  were  not  being 
as  useful  as  they  had  expected,  and  so  the  fashion 
waned.  The  visits  of  fashionable  women  were 
less  frequent  and  simple  people  came.  And  the 
soldiers  preferred  the  simple  people,  because  they 
spoke  their  language  and  did  not  ask  questions. 

"  Please  to  take  some,  they  are  very  good  for 
you,  most  useful/'  says  a  wrinkled  old  woman 
with  a  basket  of  green  apples,  and  the  soldier, 
just  to  please  her,  takes  two  or  three,  and  is 
comforted,  because  she  is  like  his  mother. 

Then  came  the  fashion  of  having  private 
nursing-homes.  Ladies  flew  to  the  railway-station 
in  motor-cars,  when  they  heard  that  wounded 

120 


My  Slav   Friends 

men  were  going  to  arrive,  and  begged  and  prayed 
to  be  given  just  five  or  six  darling  soldiers.  And 
so  they  gave  them  a  few  soldiers  who  were  very 
lightly  wounded  and  only  needed  a  little  spoiling 
to  set  them  right.  Came  the  day  when  Olga 
Alexandrovna  was  utterly  run  down  with  the 
strain  of  looking  after  five  or  six  darling  soldiers 
and  obliged  to  go  into  the  country  to  revive. 
Anastasia  Pavlovna's  nerves  were  shattered,  and 
nothing  could  restore  her  health  but  a  cure  at  a 
watering-place  in  the  Caucasus.  Sophia  Platon- 
ovna  was  a  complete  wreck,  and  absolutely 
needed  a  thorough  rest  and  the  air  of  the  Finnish 
coast.  And  so  little  lazarets  closed  one  by  one 
and,  according  to  the  latest  information  I  have 
from  Petrograd,  the  new  way  of  doing  one's  bit 
is  to  help  the  poor  German  prisoners.  Olga 
Alexandrovna  has  heard  that  that  is  what  the 
English  ladies  are  doing. 

And  when  all  these  nice  women,  who  were  so 
keen  to  help,  found  that  they  were  not  quite  as 
necessary  or  quite  as  useful  as  they  had  thought, 
and  went  away  a  little  disappointed  to  find  that 
they  were  not  quite  as  strong  as  they  had  believed, 
then  the  capable,  practised  workers  smiled  at  one 
another,  gave  little  sighs  of  relief,  and  carried 
on. 

In  every  country  I  have  been  in  there  are  to 
be  found  women  who  are  angels,  women  with 
their  wits  about  them,  who  never  seem  to  get 
tired,  who,  as  we  say,  know  what  to  do,  who 
take  hold  of  us  men  when  we  are  sick,  treat  us 

121 


My  Slav   Friends 

like  little  children,  and  make  us  feel  that  nothing 
is  so  good  as  to  be  a  child.  They  are  not  often 
fashionable,  they  have  not  the  time  to  be  beauti- 
ful, but  they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  And  what 
man  in  his  senses,  when  he  is  in  distress  of  body 
or  soul,  would  prefer  to  have  at  his  side  some 
exquisite  creature  of  the  drawing-room  or  the 
stage?  Of  this  glorious  company  of  women, 
Matris  Misericordice  filice,  there  are,  to  our  great 
good,  many  in  our  land.  As  I  have  said,  they 
are  to  be  found  in  every  land.  Such  a  one  I 
met  in  Poland.  Not  a  moment  of  the  day  did 
she  seem  to  lose,  from  the  time  that  she  got  up 
to  go  to  Mass  until  the  time  she  went  to  bed. 
Her  chief  work  was  the  management  of  a  free 
dispensary  for  the  poor  in  Varshava. 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  my  dispensary  and  a 
hundred  and  one  things  to  look  after/'  she  said 
to  me,  when  I  asked  her  whether  she  did  not 
think  she  was  doing  too  much.  "  Why,  if  I  had 
not  plenty  to  do,  I  should  probably  be  fretting 
because  I  have  to  live  in  a  tiny  flat  and  can't 
afford  fashionable  dresses.  As  it  is,  how  can  I 
possibly  think  of  such  things,  when  I  am  con- 
stantly with  these  poor  people?  ' 

She  was  a  spinster,  she  was  elderly,  she  was 
related  to  most  of  the  nicest  people  in  Poland, 
and  young  people  adored  her.  Girls  who  were 
beginning  to  go  to  parties,  young  men  about 
town,  came  to  her  little  drawing-room;  if  she 
liked  them,  she  usually  became  their  aunt.  And 
it  was,  I  think,  the  poor  souls  she  looked  after 

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My  Slav  Friends 

who  gave  her  the  charm  that  attracted  us  to  her. 
She  could  be  blunt.  She  would  not  hesitate  to 
ask  a  man  about  his  attention  to  the  practices  of 
religion.  And  if  she  thought  it  necessary  she 
knew  how  to  read  him  a  lecture  and  then  to 
speak  gently,  like  a  mother  to  a  child.  And 
when  she  did  so,  the  tiresome  nephew  loved  her 
all  the  more.  When  I  was  leaving  Varshava,  she 
gave  me  her  card,  so  that  I  might  remember  a 
difficult  address.  On  it  was  written  her  name, 
for  the  purposes  of  this  book,  Pia  Janowicz. 
And  then  she  picked  up  the  card  and  substituted 
another  one,  on  which  was  written  :  Comtesse 
Pia  Janowicz. 

"  That  card  came  from  Switzerland,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  staying  in  an  hotel  there  and  met  a  very 
nice  American.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  her,  and  one 
day  she  simply  took  my  breath  away  by  saying 
that  she  was  surprised  at  my  pettiness  and  vanity. 
Naturally  I  asked  her  what  on  earth  she  meant. 
'  Why,'  she  said,  '  you  call  yourself  a  countess 
and  you  aren't  one,  for  you  don't  dare  to  put 
anything  more  on  your  card  than  Pia  Janowicz.' 
'  Aren't  I  a  countess  !  '  I  said,  and  went  straight 
out  of  the  hotel  and  ordered  cards  with  Countess 
in  black  and  white.  So  now  I  always  give  them 
to  foreigners  instead  of  the  others." 

And  that  pleased  me,  for  it  showed  that,  after 
all,  Aunt  Pia  was  human. 

Salutis  Infirmorum  filice,  one  I  met  was  a 
young  Spanish  nun,  a  nurse,  and  she  saved  the 
life  of  one  of  my  friends.  Another  was  a  German, 

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My  Slav   Friends 

the  wife  of  a  business-man ;  she  is  an  enemy  now 
and,  as  we  are  charged  to  love  our  enemies,  let 
me  celebrate  her  goodness  here  in  the  midst  of 
a  book  about  friends ;  it  was  so  great  that  they 
called  her  the  Mother  of  Berlin.  And  in  Russia 
there  is  a  multitude  of  such  women.  It  is  they 
who  are  at  the  bedsides  of  the  wounded  now,  in 
the  field-hospital,  in  the  wards  of  the  cities ;  it  is 
they  who  are  ploughing  the  fields,  keeping  their 
homes  together  with  more  difficulty  than  their 
sisters  here,  for  Russia  is  poorer  than  England ; 
it  is  they  who  are  praying  for  the  deliverance  of 
the  quick  and  that  the  dead  may  rest.  To  de- 
scribe them  is  easy.  Think  of  the  sweetest  and 
most  patient  and  most  restful  Englishwoman  you 
know,  of  courageous  wives  and  old  women  who 
are  carrying  on  for  men  who  are  fighting,  and  you 
need  no  other  description  of  our  Russian  sisters, 
Regince  Angelorum  fdia. 

But  I  want  to  speak  of  the  achievements  of 
modern  Russian  women,  apart  from  their  deeds 
in  the  war.  And  before  I  do  so,  I  beg  leave  to 
speak  of  Russian  women  of  the  past,  of  two 
centuries  ago,  because  it  is  only  in  the  remem- 
brance of  the  past  that  the  glory  of  the  present 
can  be  comprehended.  A  scene  of  life  in  Moscow 
about  the  year  1700,  a  dinner-party,  and  we  will 
return  to  the  present. 

There  is  a  banquet  in  the  Boyar's  house.  In 
the  banqueting-room  the  table  is  spread  at  which 
the  men  will  dine.  In  one  of  the  rooms  of  the 

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My  Slav  Friends 

terem,  the  women's  apartments,  the  table  is 
spread  at  which  the  wives  of  the  Boyar's  guests 
will  dine  with  his  wife.  In  the  kitchen  the 
household  serfs  are  preparing  many  dishes  for 
the  banquet.  In  the  cellar  serfs  are  filling  silver 
flagons  full  of  brandy,  full  of  mead  and  sack 
and  malmsey,  and  of  wine  from  Germany. 

The  Boyarina  sits  in  her  tiring-room.  Her  serfs 
bring  to  her  a  heaped-up  pile  of  silk  and  velvet 
and  gold-tissue  and  they  clothe  her  in  strange 
Byzantine  garments,  innumerable  vestments,  one 
above  another.  Burdened  with  her  broidered 
raiment  stands  a  hieratic  figure  that  has  stepped 
from  a  mosaic. 

When  the  Boyarina  married  she  was  slender, 
and  she  feared  that  her  husband  would  not  love 
her.  So  she  lay  long  hours  upon  her  bed  and 
drank  much  brandy.  "  God  make  me  plump," 
she  said;  "  I  can  make  myself  rosy."  Now  she 
is  plump  and  therefore  beautiful.  She  sits  at  her 
mirror  while  they  paint  her  face ;  for  she  is  modest 
and  knows  that  no  honest  woman  would  allow 
the  natural  loveliness  of  her  complexion  to  be 
seen.  And  that  night,  because  the  banquet  is  so 
grand,  her  husband's  friends  will  see  her.  So 
they  whiten  well  her  cheeks  and  touch  them  with 
carmine,  and  they  blacken  her  eyebrows  and  the 
whites  of  her  eyes.  She  is  happy,  because  the 
night  before  her  husband  beat  her.  It  was  long 
since  he  had  whipped  her,  and  she  feared  he 
did  not  love  her;  now  she  knows  he  loves  her 
still. 

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My  Slav  Friends 

The  serfs  plait  the  Boyarina's  hair  in  two  long 
tresses  and  coil  them  about  her  head.  Then  they 
tire  her  with  a  headdress,  hiding  her  hair,  with  a 
fringe  of  pearls  that  covers  her  brow  and  falls 
almost  to  her  eyes,  with  a  great  tiara  of  gold 
and  jewels,  encircling  her  head  like  the  wide 
aureole  of  a  saint.  And  they  praise  the  lady's 
beauty,  tell  her  the  assembled  Boyars  will  be 
envious  of  her  spouse. 

She  is  a  little  nervous  as  she  waits  for  the  signal 
to  descend  into  the  banquet  ing-room.  It  is  so 
seldom  that  strange  men  see  her  countenance. 
There  are  twenty-seven  locks  to  the  terem  and 
her  husband  is  the  guardian  of  the  keys.  Some- 
times she  talks  with  men  who  are  related  to  her 
or  to  her  husband,  but  never  with  others,  except 
at  wedding  feasts.  If  only  there  were  more 
wedding  feasts  !  When  she  goes  abroad  to  visit 
her  friends,  she  sees  the  people  flitting  like  ghosts 
by  the  windows  of  her  carriage ;  but  they  cannot 
see  her  because  the  panes  are  filled  with  bladder. 
On  great  festivals,  when  she  goes  to  church,  her 
face  is  covered  with  a  veil.  And  life  is  monoto- 
nous. When  she  married,  her  mother-in-law  told 
her  that  she  should  be  the  first  in  the  house  to 
rise,  in  order  that  she  might  superintend  the  tasks 
of  the  household  serfs,  as  the  monk  Sylvester 
directed.  She  has  manifold  household  duties. 
She  must  see  that  cooks  and  maids  do  their 
work,  that  the  embroideresses  are  not  idle.  For 
several  hours  every  day  she  must  stand  in  the 
domestic  chapel  while  the  chaplain  reads  prayers. 

126 


My   Slav  Friends 

Sometimes  men  with  dancing  bears  come  into 
the  courtyard  and  she  can  watch  them  from  her 
window.  There  also  assemble  many  beggars. 
And  she  gives  them  gold  and  silver,  when  they 
chant  the  holy  gospel  of  the  rich  man  in  fine 
linen  and  the  beggar  full  of  sores. 

The  moment  has  come.  The  Boyarina's  serfs 
fling  open  a  door,  and  she  stands,  like  a  glittering 
idol,  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  that  leads  from 
the  terem  into  the  banqueting-room.  The  incense 
of  a  murmur  of  admiration  rises  to  her.  Very 
slowly  she  goes  down  the  staircase  and  her  husband 
leads  her  to  the  place  of  honour  beneath  the  holy 
icons.  There  she  stands  to  receive  the  saluta- 
tions of  the  guests,  who  wear  long  garments  of 
silk  and  cloth  of  gold,  with  stiff  collars  that  are 
studded  with  jewels,  and  high  boots  ornamented 
with  pearls.  Each  man  comes  and  stands  before 
her,  bowing  low  from  the  waist,  and  she  bows 
to  each  in  return,  but  is  careful  not  to  bow  so 
low  as  they.  Her  eyes  meet  the  blue  eyes  of  a 
comely  youth  with  a  fringe  of  golden  hair.  And 
when  the  salutations  are  ended,  the  host  begs  the 
guests  to  honour  him  by  kissing  his  wife.  And 
they,  being  well-mannered,  ask  him  to  kiss  her  first. 
So  he  kisses  her,  and  all  the  others  kiss  her  as  they 
kiss  the  image  of  the  Iverskaya  Mother  of  God. 
But  when  she  is  kissed  by  the  youth  with  blue 
eyes  and  golden  hair,  she  feels  a  fluttering  of  her 
heart.  Salutations  ended,  she  gives  to  each  man 
half  a  pint  of  brandy;  but  if  any  are  too  old  or 
feeble  to  relish  this  aperitif  she  gives  instead  a 

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My  Slav  Friends 

goblet  of  Rhine  wine.  Listening  to  the  praise 
they  murmur,  she  goes  up  the  staircase  slowly, 
vanishing  within  her  prison,  dreaming  of  the 
golden  youth. 

The  banquet  begins.  The  Boyars  partake  of 
many  dishes  and  drink  deeply  of  mead  and  various 
wines.  Most  of  them  do  not  remember  the  wise 
man's  counsel  :  to  think  of  those  who  have  no 
food  and  then  to  praise  the  Lord,  when  eating 
rich  and  greasy  foods.  In  the  terem  the  ladies 
feast  apart  with  the  Boyarina.  When  the  grosser 
viands  have  been  eaten,  the  door  at  the  head  of 
the  staircase  is  opened.  The  Boyarina  and  the 
ladies  descend  into  the  banquet-room  in  a  long 
procession.  Each  has  in  her  hand  a  golden  cup 
of  wine  to  offer  to  the  Boyar  and  his  friends. 
Each  is  like  a  priestess  who  knows  the  ceremonies 
to  be  performed  in  ministering  at  a  shrine.  The 
men  rise  and  bow  with  reverence,  and  when  the 
golden  cups  are  emptied,  the  shining  procession 
ascends  the  stairs  again  and  vanishes.  Then  the 
men  drink  more  freely.  There  are  serfs,  the 
fairest  maidens,  striplings  chosen  for  their  beauty, 
for  the  pleasure  of  these  lords. 

The  next  day  the  Boyarina  sends  a  servant  to 
the  houses  of  the  ladies  who  have  dined  with 
her  to  inquire  how  they  got  home.  And  each 
sends  the  same  reply :  "  Tell  your  mistress  I 
was  so  drunk  that  I  know  not  how  I  got  home." 
And  the  lady  hears  the  formal  answer  that  polite- 
ness prompted,  dreaming  of  the  youth  who  kissed 
her,  of  the  youth  whose  hair  was  gold. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

Two  years  after  the  dinner-party  an  ukase 
flings  open  the  doors  of  the  terem.  Five  years 
after  the  party,  not  a  lady  of  quality  in  all  Moscow 
who  does  not  wear  a  hooped  petticoat  and  pow- 
dered hair.  Eighteen  years  afterwards,  compul- 
sory parties  from  four  to  ten  for  men  and  women. 
Less  than  two  hundred  years  ago  that  a  Russian 
woman  first  felt  the  restraint  of  a  laced  bodice 
and  was  forced  by  the  Governor  of  Moscow  and 
the  Head  of  Police  of  Petrograd,  under  the  orders 
of  the  Tsar,  to  give  parties  as  in  France  and 
England. 

And  the  Russian  woman  of  the  present,  what  a 
marvellous  person  she  is  !  She  may  be  a  prac- 
tised woman  of  the  world,  she  may  know  all 
there  is  to  be  known  about  microbes,  she  may  be 
a  clerk  in  a  bank,  a  novelist,  a  dentist.  And 
when  she  attends  an  All  Russian  Women's 
Congress,  one  trembles  at  the  thought  of  the 
lengths  to  which  she  may  not  go.  She  has  risen 
in  such  an  assembly  and  denounced  marriage 
as  an  institution  no  longer  fitted  to  modern 
needs;  and  her  sentiments  have  been  applauded. 
Happily,  as  in  our  own  country,  most  Russian 
women  do  not  hold  that  the  words  change  and 
progress  are  synonymous. 

But  let  me  speak  of  two  women  in  particular, 
one  a  politician,  the  other  an  actress.  I  had 
heard  much  of  the  politician.  I  knew  that  she  was 
a  distinguished  woman  of  letters,  a  notable  pub- 
licist, and  I  knew  that  she  was  a  member  of  the 
committee  that  directed  the  fortunes  of  the  most 
K  129 


My  Slav   Friends 

influential  political  party  advocating  a  progres- 
sive policy  in  parliament  and  in  the  country. 
I  was  aware  that  no  other  woman  in  Russia  held 
a  similar  position,  or  was  associated  so  intimately 
with  men  who  voiced  the  opinion  of  a  majority 
of  their  fellow-countrymen.  And  on  my  way  to 
call  on  her  for  the  first  time  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  she  was  a  formidable  person  and  that  I 
should  not  find  her,  as  the  Russians  say,  sym- 
patishny.  In  fact  I  felt  just  as  I  did  when  I 
went  for  the  first  time  to  see  an  Englishwoman, 
whose  name  is  famous  throughout  Europe  and 
America  as  that  of  an  authority  on  social  and 
economic  questions.  I  expected  her  to  have  a 
masculine  air  and  to  be  a  little  hard.  In  the 
event,  the  simplicity  and  the  grace  of  the  Russian 
and  of  the  Englishwoman  made  me  forget  the 
political  position  of  the  one  and  the  public  work 
performed  by  the  other.  They  were  both  of 
them  virile  in  intellect  and  feminine  in  charm. 

Mvo  rarissima  nostro  simplicitas  are  words  that 
are  not  to  be  applied  to  Russia.  Simplicity  has 
ever  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  most  attractive 
qualities  of  Russian  life.  It  was,  I  think,  the 
chief  secret  of  the  actress  of  whom  I  have  to 
tell,  as  it  was  of  the  political  woman.  Vera 
Feordorovna  Kommisarzhevskaya,  our  dear  Vera 
Feordorovna,  as  Russians  used  to  say,  was  more 
beloved  than  any  other  actress  in  all  Russia. 
When  she  died  there  was  not  an  important  town 
in  the  land  in  which  dirges  were  not  sung  for  her 
soul.  I  remember  standing  in  a  throng  of  people 

130 


My  Slav  Friends 

in  the  Kazan  cathedral,  while  the  lovely  wail  of 
the  singers  besought  heaven  to  rest  her  soul. 
The  first  time  I  saw  her  act  she  was  the  erring 
nun,  whose  place  in  the  convent  is  taken  by  our 
Lady,  in  the  play  of  Maeterlinck  that  most  of  us 
have  only  seen,  robbed  of  its  delicate  charm,  in  a 
travesty  they  called  The  Miracle.  Two  moments 
of  that  play  are  engraved  in  my  memory  :  the 
moment  when  the  nun,  kneeling  before  the 
Virgin's  image,  raises  her  face  for  the  kiss  of 
the  young  knight,  who  bends  over  her,  and  the 
moment  when  she  is  dying  in  the  arms  of  the 
abbess  and  her  sisters  and  confesses  that  she  has 
known  human  love.  The  acting  of  Vera  Feordor- 
ovna  impressed  me  in  the  same  way  as  the  acting 
of  Duse  impressed  her  the  first  time  she  saw  the 
great  Italian. 

"  When  I  saw  Bernhardt,"  she  told  me,  "I 
was  filled  with  admiration,  and  while  she  was 
playing  I  kept  thinking  of  her  skill  and  of  her 
wonderful  art;  but  when  I  saw  Duse  I  never 
thought  about  her  art,  until  I  left  the  theatre 
and  began  to  realize  what  a  supreme  artist  she 
was." 

It  was  like  that  with  Vera  Feordorovna.  When 
she  acted,  her  own  personality  seemed  to  cease 
to  exist,  and  on  the  stage  there  was  no  great 
actress  but  Beatrice,  or  Nora,  or  Melisande,  or 
Magda. 

When  I  went  to  see  her  for  the  first  time,  I 
was  shown  into  her  sanctum.  It  looked  like  a 
man's  study.  There  was  a  desk  with  a  roll-top 


My  Slav   Friends 

and  many  books.  A  little  woman  with  a  colour- 
less face  and  colourless  hair  came  in.  It  was  the 
great  actress.  She  wore  a  plain  stuff  dress,  the 
sort  of  dress  a  woman  who  is  too  much  engrossed 
in  helping  the  poor  to  trouble  about  clothes 
might  have  worn.  She  was  not  beautiful,  but 
the  sweetness  of  her  expression,  her  air  of  gentle- 
ness, gave  her  a  charm  which  one  felt  and  found 
difficult  to  analyze.  She  sat  down  in  a  great 
basket-chair  and  leant  back,  looking  too  fragile 
and  too  weary  to  get  out  of  it  again.  I  thought 
of  all  this  when  I  saw  her  as  Magda  and  she 
flashed  on  to  the  stage,  brilliant,  animated, 
vivacious. 

"  I  left  the  imperial  stage/'  she  told  me,  "  be- 
cause I  found  that  they  were  conservative  at  the 
Alexander  Theatre,  content  to  go  on  in  the  old 
way.  There  was  no  love  of  progress,  and  I  saw 
that,  if  I  remained  there,  I  should  never  be  able 
to  realize  my  ideals/' 

The  Alexander  Theatre,  it  must  be  observed, 
holds  the  place  in  Russia  that  the  Maison  de 
Moliere  does  in  France.  The  actors  are  paid  by 
the  State  and  are  given  pensions  after  a  certain 
number  of  years'  service.  Nobody  was  more 
beloved  there  than  Vera  Feordorovna. 

"  And  when  I  left,"  said  the  great  actress,  "  I 
had  no  plans,  except  that  vaguely  I  hoped  to 
have  a  theatre  of  my  own,  in  which  I  could  try 
and  carry  out  my  ideas." 

Nothing  more  characteristically  Russian  than 
that  vagueness  about  the  future.  I  remember 

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My  Slav  Friends 

once  saying  to  some  Russian  friends  that  two 
young  people  ought  not  to  have  got  married, 
because  they  hadn't  two  kopecks  to  rub  together. 
"  Now  that  is  exactly  the  sort  of  thing/'  said 
one  of  my  friends,  "  that  one  would  expect  a 
cold,  calculating  Englishman  to  say." 

"  They  love  each  other,"  said  somebody  else, 
as  if  that  solved  the  financial  question. 

I  began  to  say  something  about  love  flying  out 
of  the  window,  when  another  friend  interrupted 
with  the  remark :  "  One  always  gets  money 
somehow." 

And,  cold  and  calculating  as  I  may  be,  it  is 
this  happy-go-lucky,  let-the-morrow-take-care-of- 
itself  spirit,  that  is  to  me  part  of  the  charm  of 
Russia.  And  that  was  the  spirit  in  which  Vera 
Kommisarzhevskaya  left  the  Alexander  Theatre. 
She  knew  nothing  whatever  about  business  and 
was  shamefully  exploited  by  impresarios,  learnt 
her  lesson,  and  by  hard  work  in  the  provinces 
got  together  the  money  with  which  to  open  the 
Dramatic  Theatre,  which  all  Petrograd  called 
Kommisarzhevskaya's  Theatre.  It  was  not  in 
the  least  like  any  other  theatre  in  Europe :  a  long 
hall,  with  unornamented  white  walls,  a  few  boxes 
on  a  level  with  the  stage,  a  gallery,  supported  on 
white  pillars,  running  round  three  sides.  A  first 
night  was  extraordinarily  interesting.  French 
actresses  from  the  Michael  Theatre  in  the  front 
row,  a  little  bewildered,  gave  a  touch  of  elegance 
to  the  house;  but  Vera  Feordorovna  did  not 
trouble  to  invite  the  fashionable  world,  she  asked 

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My   Slav   Friends 

men  and  women  whom  she  believed  to  be  striving 
for  progress  in  letters,  in  politics,  in  the  sister 
arts,  as  she  was  in  the  art  of  the  theatre.  It  was 
the  makers  of  a  new  world  who  met  together, 
the  men  and  women  who  are  moulding  the  mind 
of  the  nation,  standing  aloof  from  the  official 
and  diplomatic  society,  the  fashionable  world,  of 
Petrograd.  In  the  gallery  were  the  children  of 
the  New  Russia,  students,  student  girls,  and  never 
has  an  actress  found  the  gods  more  propitious 
to  her  than  did  Vera  Feordorovna.  She  would 
put  on  new  pieces  which  she  did  not  expect  to 
be  financially  successful.  She  would  experiment 
in  new  ways  of  presenting  old  plays.  The 
experiments  might  be  unsuccessful,  but  people 
would  overlook  mistakes,  because,  as  they  said, 
Vera  Feordorovna  had  ideals  and  was  trying  to 
give  new  life  to  the  theatre.  And  in  the  end 
it  was  her  desire  to  add  to  the  great  fame  enjoyed 
in  Russia  by  a  British  dramatist  that  took  her 
from  us.  She  had  shown  us  the  pessimism  of 
Andreev,  the  naturalism  of  Wedekind,  she  had 
given  us  a  mystery-play  of  Sologub,  dream-plays 
of  Maeterlinck,  and  she  resolved  to  stage  Wilde's 
Salome.  A  text  of  the  play  was  sanctioned  by 
the  censor.  The  repetition  generate  attracted,  as 
usual,  the  progressive  world  of  the  capital.  The 
reception  of  the  play  was  enthusiastic  and  the 
police-officials,  whose  business  it  was  to  represent 
the  censor,  declared  that  they  were  delighted. 

"  You  see,"  said  a  friend,  with  a  little  air  of 
triumph,    "  there   is   greater   freedom   in   Russia 

134 


My  Slav   Friends 

than  in  England ;  you  have  to  come  to  Petrograd 
to  see  a  play  by  one  of  your  own  poets/' 

His  triumph  was  short-lived.  The  Holy  Synod, 
at  the  instigation  of  the  clerical  party  in  the 
Imperial  Duma,  took  action,  and  on  the  eve  of 
the  first  performance  for  the  general  public  the 
acting  of  the  play  was  peremptorily  forbidden. 
Just  as  Vera  Feordorovna  did  not  seem  to  mind 
whether  there  was  a  part  for  herself  in  the  plays 
she  thought  it  a  duty  to  produce,  so  she  did 
not  seem  to  care  whether  her  productions  were 
profitable  or  not  as  long  as  she  could  make  both 
ends  meet.  She  had  exhausted  her  available 
capital  in  mounting  Wilde's  play.  In  order  to 
get  new  funds  to  continue  her  work,  she  decided, 
although  she  was  in  poor  health,  to  make  a  long 
tour  in  the  provinces,  in  Siberia,  in  Turkestan. 
She  fell  ill  of  the  small-pox  in  Tashkend  and  died 
there.  No  woman  who  has  died  in  Russia  in  the 
last  ten  years  has  been  more  deeply  mourned. 
John  of  Kronstadt,  Leo  Tolstoi,  Vera  Kommisar- 
zhevskaya,  these  are  the  three  whose  passing 
touched  the  heart  of  Russia  the  most  profoundly 
in  the  past  decade. 

I  do  not  think  that  any  of  her  friends  mourned 
for  the  great  actress  more  sincerely  than  did  the 
political  woman  of  whom  I  have  written.  The 
paths  they  chose  were  different,  but  between 
them  was  the  kinship  of  genius,  of  toil,  of  nobility 
of  purpose.  I  think  of  the  narrow  lives  of  the 
Russian  ladies  of  two  centuries  ago,  mewed  in 
the  straitness  of  the  terem,  and  of  the  spacious 

135 


My  Slav   Friends 

lives  of  these  two  ladies  of  modern  Russia,  and 
again  there  come  into  my  mind  words  I  have 
already  quoted  more  than  once  :  "  We  do  not 
walk,  we  run;  we  do  not  run,  we  fly/' 

I  began  this  chapter  by  showing  the  reverse 
of  a  medal  whose  face  is  fair,  and  I  find  that 
instinctively  I  have  turned  the  medal  over  again 
to  draw  attention  to  beauties  which  I  had  neg- 
lected to  point  out.  That  pleasant  task  shall  be 
continued  in  the  following  chapter. 


136 


A   POPULAR   PICTURE   POST-CARD. 

>(The  repljr  of  the  First  Duma  to  the  Speech  from  the  Throne  :  a  demand  for 
Democratic  Liberties.) 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHAT  is  the  greatest  glory  of  the  Russian  land  ? 
what  is  the  chief  and  most  legitimate  source  of 
pride  to  the  Russian  people  ? 

There  are  men  in  Russia  who  would  reply  that 
the  incorruptible  bodies  of  the  saints  in  the  cata- 
combs of  Kiev  are  the  greatest  glory  of  the  Russian 
land,  that  the  conservation  of  the  apostolic  faith 
in  the  complicated  ceremonies  of  the  churches  is 
their  greatest  pride. 

There  are  others,  a  multitude  that  is  ever  in- 
creasing, whose  thoughts  are  our  thoughts,  whose 
words  are  our  words,  men  and  women  and  children, 
who  have  learnt  to  admire  our  laws  and  to  hold 
our  institutions  in  high  esteem,  who  love  our  land 
because  it  is  free  and  love  us  because  we  have 
made  it  free,  and  they  would  give  answers  to  our 
questions  of  a  different  nature,  less  ciirious  to  us, 
more  easily  understood.  They  would  not  in  reply 
show  us  the  countless  shrines  that  adorn  their 
land.  They  would  not  speak  of  the  religious 
fervour  of  the  common  people,  nor  of  the  spirit 
of  kindness,  of  hospitality,  of  self-sacrifice,  which 
distinguishes  their  race.  They  would  tell  us  that 
the  greatest  glory  of  the  Russian  people  is  its  love 
of  Freedom  and  its  greatest  pride  the  triumphs 
it  has  achieved  in  the  holy  name  of  Liberty. 

137 


My  Slav   Friends 

In  the  summer  of  1906  we  heard  in  Petrograd 
that  a  number  of  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons had  resolved  to  come  to  Russia,  in  order  to 
show  their  brotherly  affection  for  the  members 
of  the  first  Imperial  Duma.  The  British  members 
of  parliament  did  not  come  to  Russia,  and  their 
inability  to  fulfil  an  engagement  they  had  made 
was  a  keen  disappointment  to  those  who  had 
hoped  to  welcome  them ;  yet  I  cannot  regret  that 
the  proposal  was  made,  for  it  evoked  a  response 
in  Russia  that  made  me  understand  the  essential 
unity  of  the  British  and  Russian  peoples  and  the 
solidarity  of  their  aims.  The  Russians  who  were 
arranging  the  details  of  the  reception  of  the 
British  deputation  did  me  the  honour  of  asking 
me  to  join  their  committee.  Day  after  day  there 
came  to  us  from  the  provinces  addresses  of  wel- 
come to  be  presented  to  the  visitors  from  England. 
I  have  one  of  these  addresses  in  my  possession. 
It  came  from  an  obscure  town  of  which  I  had  never 
heard  until  the  document  was  placed  in  my  hands. 
It  is  a  simple  and  touching  address,  setting  forth 
the  joy  that  the  townsmen  had  felt,  when  they 
heard  that  a  deputation  of  the  British  House  of 
Commons  was  coming  from  free  England  to  give 
hope  to  those  who  were  engaged  in  a  struggle  for 
Liberty.  And  it  ended  in  a  note  of  confidence 
and  high  aspiration— 

"  We  shall  be  free  !  And  then  the  British  and 
Russian  peoples  will  work  together  for  the  lasting 
happiness *of  humanity/' 

138 


My  Slav   Friends 

And  all  the  addresses  we  received  were  couched 
in  similar  terms.  Those  who  hold  such  language 
are  more  than  friends  and  allies  united  to  us  by 
the  iron  bond  of  war  against  a  common  enemy; 
they  are  brothers,  flesh  of  our  flesh  and  bone  of 
our  bone. 

Remember,  there  was  a  time  when  we  were 
hated  in  Russia.  There  was  a  time  when  quarrel- 
ling moujiks,  having  exhausted  every  term  of 
vituperation  in  the  Russian  language,  would  shout 
at  one  another  two  English  names,  learnt  in  the 
course  of  a  war  which  we  can  only  think  of  with 
bitter  regret  :  "  You  Palmerston  !  you  Napier  !  " 

Our  fervour  in  the  worship  of  that  fair  goddess, 
whose  most  splendid  and  most  ancient  shrine  is 
England,  has  gained  for  us  absolution  and  made 
the  Russian  people  forget  past  enmity. 

There  were  priests  of  our  temple  of  Liberty, 
who  heard  with  misgiving  of  the  rapprochement 
between  the  Governments  of  Russia  and  Great 
Britain,  which  resulted  in  the  treaty  of  1907. 
Should  a  free  people  seek  the  friendship  of  blas- 
phemers of  the  goddess?  Should  the  ministers 
of  a  sovereign  people  display  cordiality  to  the 
ministers  of  an  autocratic  emperor  and  forget 
the  allegiance  that  Liberty  demands?  Some  of 
those  who  spoke  in  this  manner  looked  to  Germany 
and  saw  in  her  a  better  friend  than  Russia.  They 
were  thinking  of  the  Germany  that  was  the 
spiritual  home  of  Turgeniev,  of  the  Germany  that 
was  the  spiritual  home  of  Lord  Haldane,  and 

139 


My  Slav   Friends 


they  did  not  understand  that  since  the  time  when 
the  Russian  writer  went  into  Germany  for  purifi- 
cation, since  the  time  when  the  British  statesman 
found  refreshment  and  sustenance  for  his  soul  in 
the  schools  of  Weimar,  a  new  Germany,  false  to 
the  past,  had  arisen. 

In  Russia  men  understood  these  things  better. 
It  was  the  men  who  were  in  the  forefront  of 
the  battle  for  Freedom  who  rejoiced  to  see  the 
strengthening  of  the  ties  between  their  Govern- 
ment and  ours.  From  the  lips  of  such  men  as  Paul 
Miliukov,  Maxim  Kovalevsky,  Peter  Dolgorukov, 
I  heard  expressions  of  the  utmost  satisfaction  at 
the  deepening  of  an  official  friendship  which  a 
good  many  Englishmen,  holding  the  same  political 
views  and  cherishing  the  same  ideals,  publicly 
deplored.  I  was  told  by  the  representative  men 
I  have  named  that  they  welcomed  a  cordial  under- 
standing between  the  Russian  and  British  Govern- 
ments, because  they  were  persuaded  that  the 
influence  of  England  would  strengthen  their  hands 
and  subserve  their  efforts  to  make  Russia  free. 
In  England  some  of  my  political  friends  held  a 
contrary  opinion,  and  when  I  attempted  to  urge 
on  them  the  Russian  view,  with  which  I  was  in 
agreement,  I  found  that  they  suspected  me  of 
having  abandoned  my  political  principles  and  of 
having  been  seduced  by  some  magic  of  priests 
of  orthodoxy  and  officials  of  autocracy.  In  Russia 
it  was  the  enemies  of  Freedom,  the  men  who 
resented  the  creation  of  the  Imperial  Duma  by  the 

140 


My  Slav  Friends 

Emperor  and  were  doing  their  utmost  to  bring  it 
into  contempt,  who  disliked  the  English  friend- 
ship. 

"  We  look  upon  Germany  as  the  most  natural 
friend  for  Russia/'  said  one  of  these  men  to  me,  a 
prominent  member  of  the  Duma  and  an  accom- 
plished man  of  the  world. 

Men  of  this  sort  desired  to  see  a  solid  Russo- 
German  friendship  established,  because  they  knew 
that  the  influence  of  Germany  at  Court  and  with 
the  Government  was  reactionary.  The  Germans 
desired  their  neighbour  to  be  weak  and  were  sharp 
enough  to  see  that  when  the  Russian  people 
became  free  they  would  at  the  same  time  become 
strong.  Progressive  Russians  —  I  do  not  refer 
alone  to  those  whom  I  might  legitimately  call 
Liberals,  but  also  to  men  whose  political  views 
were  akin  to  those  of  British  Conservatives — 
dreaded  the  influence  of  Germany  on  the  same 
grounds  as  reactionary  politicians  laid  store  by 
it,  and  while  desiring  friendly  relations  with  both 
England  and  Germany,  made  it  clear  that  if  one 
of  the  two  friends  had  at  any  time  to  be  sacrificed 
it  should  not  be  England.  And  this  conviction 
was  so  strong  and  its  expression  so  vehement  that 
it  was  sometimes  a  source  of  embarrassment  to  the 
Cabinet.  The  difference  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  Russian  press  treated  the  visit  of  Edward  VII 
to  Russia,  in  1907,  and  a  subsequent  visit  of  the 
German  Emperor  is  a  case  in  point. 

I  am  not  likely  to  forget  the  summer  morning 

141 


My  Slav  Friends 

when  I  looked  out  over  the  beautiful  bay  of  Revel, 
on  whose  bright  waters  were  lying  the  Standard 
and  the  Polar  Star,  and  saw  on  the  horizon  three 
dun-coloured  shadows  that,  growing  larger  and 
deeper  in  colour,  materialized  and  became  three 
ships,  the  yacht  of  the  King  of  England  sailing 
between  two  men-of-war.  The  King  had  come 
to  consecrate  in  royal  pageantry  the  friendship  of 
his  subjects  with  the  Russian  people.  The  mist 
of  doubt  and  suspicion  that  had  hung  between 
us  had  been  dissipated,  and  I  knew,  as  I  watched 
the  ships  sail  into  the  bay,  that  the  best  hearts  in 
the  Russian  land  were  glad  that  the  king  of  the 
freest  men  in  the  earth  had  come  to  their  shores. 
His  presence  was  to  them  a  pledge  of  future  glory. 
And  in  these  days  I  like  to  think  of  King  Edward, 
as  I  saw  him  on  the  Victoria  and  Albert  at  Revel, 
in  the  long  grey  overcoat  and  the  astrakhan  and 
scarlet  cap  of  a  Russian  general. 

The  Russian  newspapers  sent  representatives 
to  Revel  to  describe  the  meeting  of  the  King  and 
the  Tsar,  and  they  published  leading  articles 
about  the  event  of  the  most  gratifying  character. 
The  urbanity  of  the  Russian  press  on  this  occasion 
made  its  conduct  the  more  remarkable  during  a 
subsequent  visit  of  the  Kaiser.  It  all  but  ignored 
the  German  visit.  The  newspapers  contented 
themselves  with  printing  the  speeches  of  the  Tsar 
and  the  Kaiser,  and  the  glacial  periods  in  which 
the  court  reporter  stated  who  had  lunched  and 
dined  on  the  imperial  yachts.  I  myself  made 

142 


My  Slav  Friends 

the  short  journey  to  the  Finnish  coast  to  see  the 
meeting  of  the  two  monarchs  and  found  that  the 
only  other  journalist  there  was  a  young  Finlander, 
employed  by  the  Daily  Mail.  There  were  no 
representatives  of  the  great  Russian  newspapers. 
In  an  arm  of  the  sea,  which  might  have  been  a 
lake,  the  same  pageant  was  being  played  that  I 
had  seen  at  Revel.  It  is  the  custom  of  monarchs 
when  they  meet  to  cause  a  noise  to  be  made  with 
cannons  and  to  have  the  same  tunes  played 
repeatedly  on  brazen  instruments.  These  prac- 
tices become  ludicrous  when  there  is  no  audience 
to  be  entertained  by  the  noise  and  the  tunes.  All 
Russia  was  listening  to  the  thunder  of  the  guns 
that  welcomed  Edward  VII  and  to  the  music  of 
our  national  anthem.  I  heard  the  same  music 
as  I  sailed  down  the  Finnish  fiord,  floating  to  me 
across  the  water  as  William  II  left  the  Hohen- 
zollern,  and  it  came  to  me  more  faintly  when  he 
arrived  on  the  Standart;  but  I  and  a  few  fishermen 
were  the  only  persons  who  listened  to  it.  The 
firing  of  an  imperial  salute,  when  the  German 
yacht  and  the  German  men-of-war  steamed  away, 
scared  the  sea-fowl  who  make  their  homes  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  but  it  was  not  heard  in 
Russia. 

Mr.  Stolypin,  who  was  then  Premier,  very 
properly  desired  that  the  press  should  make  some 
graceful  reference  to  the  visit  of  the  sovereign  of 
a  friendly  power.  He  sent  for  Mr.  Suvorin,  the 
editor  of  the  Novoe  Vremya,  and  asked  him  to 

143 


My  Slav   Friends 

publish  a  leading  article,  welcoming  the  Kaiser 
to  Russian  waters.  Mr.  Suvorin  refused  to  make 
any  promise,  said  that  he  was  an  old  man  who 
left  the  paper  in  the  hands  of  his  young  men,  and 
that  they  were  very  much  taken  up  with  the 
friendship  for  England. 

"  I  warn  you/'  said  the  Premier,  "  that  if 
you  publish  a  hostile  article,  your  paper  will  be 
confiscated/' 

Possibly  Mr.  Suvorin  chuckled  when  he  reflected 
that,  although  the  Premier  possessed  machinery 
for  silencing  newspapers,  he  had  no  means  with 
which  he  could  compel  them  to  speak.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  Two  brilliant  leader-writers,  Mr. 
Igorov  and  Mr.  Pilenko,  must,  I  think,  have  put 
their  heads  together.  However  that  may  be, 
the  Novoe  Vremya  provided  no  material  for  the 
German  journalists  who  were  ransacking  the  press 
to  discover  agreeable  comments  to  telegraph  to 
Berlin.  On  the  first  day  of  the  imperial  visit 
the  chief  leading  article  dealt  with  a  treaty,  con- 
cluded some  months  before  between  Great  Britain 
and  Siam,  which  was  represented  as  a  triumph 
of  British,  and  a  defeat  of  German,  diplomacy. 
On  the  second  day  of  the  visit  those  ingenious 
leader-writers  raked  up  an  old  tale  about  a 
hydropathic  establishment  in  Madeira,  which  was 
in  some  way  supposed  to  be  connected  with  an 
attempt  to  create  a  German  sphere  of  influence 
in  that  agreeable  island.  The  tone  of  the  Novoe 
Vremya  at  this  time  was  essentially  conservative, 

144 


My  Slav  Friends 

although  not  reactionary ;  that  is  to  say,  it  repre- 
sented the  opinions  of  a  large  number  of  people 
who  welcomed  the  establishment  of  a  form  of 
representative  government,  but  did  not  desire 
more  sweeping  reforms  than  those  foreshadowed 
in  the  October  Manifesto,  a  fact  that  makes  its 
attitude  the  more  remarkable.  It  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  some  sense  of  gratification  at  the  pre- 
ference for  the  friendship  of  England  to  that  of 
Germany  displayed  in  these  manoeuvres;  but  I 
am  bound  to  say  that  in  my  judgment,  whether 
the  episode  be  regarded  from  the  standpoint  of 
Russian  interests  or  of  British  interests,  Mr. 
Stolypin  was  right  and  the  leader-writers  wrong. 

The  attitude  of  the  Russians  to  the  foreign 
policy  of  their  Government  was  in  the  main  dic- 
tated by  considerations  of  its  effect  on  home 
affairs.  The  progressive  parties,  in  which  I  do 
not  include  the  revolutionary  and  socialistic 
groups,  were  all  for  a  British  policy,  because 
they  believed  it  would  help  them  to  consolidate 
their  conquests  and  to  attain  their  aims.  The 
reactionary  parties  favoured  a  German  policy,  be- 
cause they  believed  that  German  influence  would 
be  an  asset  in  their  struggle  with  the  votaries 
of  Liberty.  The  leaders  of  public  opinion,  how- 
ever, did  not  lose  sight  of  the  effect  of  an  entente 
with  England  on  the  position  of  Russia  as  a  great 
power. 

11  I  desire  to  see  closer  relations  with  England 
established,  because  I  believe  her  influence  will  be 
L  145 


My  Slav   Friends 

beneficial,"  said  Prince  Dolgorukov  to  me  at  the 
time  when  these  questions  were  being  keenly  dis- 
cussed both  in  Russia  and  in  England ;  "  but  I 
am  a  patriotic  Russian,  as  well  as  a  Liberal,  and 
it  is  also  because  I  want  to  see  Russia  strong  that 
I  am  in  favour  of  a  British  policy." 

But  undoubtedly  the  idea  that  dominated  the 
minds  of  a  vast  number  of  Russians,  who  ardently 
desired  to  see  their  Government  and  ours  united 
by  closer  ties,  was  the  belief  that  union  with  a 
free  people  would  be  an  advantage  to  them  in 
the  struggle  to  make  themselves  free.  It  was 
neither  our  might  nor  our  wealth  that  drew  them 
to  us.  Our  love  of  Liberty  was  the  charm  that 
conquered  their  hearts.  And  outside  the  limits 
of  Russia  proper,  in  the  dark  days,  I  have  often 
been  profoundly  touched  at  the  confidence  dis- 
played by  Poles  and  Esthonians,  Letts,  Georgians, 
and  others,  that  we  in  England,  because  we  were 
free  and  because  we  were  the  champions  of  Free- 
dom, sympathized  with  them  in  their  trials  and 
understood  their  aspirations.  And  sometimes, 
in  talking  with  these  people,  I  have  felt 
embarrassed  and  ashamed  when  their  conviction 
of  our  interest  has  made  me  think  of  the  ignor- 
ance displayed  by  many  Englishmen,  not  only 
of  their  difficulties  and  aims,  but  of  the  most 
elementary  facts  about  them.  "  We  welcome  the 
representatives  of  free  England.  We  shall  be 
free.  We  shall  work  together  with  you  when  we 
are  free."  In  these  three  sentences  of  addresses, 

146 


My  Slav   Friends 


that  the  members  of  the  House  of  Commons  did 
not  come  to  Russia  to  receive,  are  summed  up 
the  reasons  which  made  multitudes  love  us,  before 
ever  war  united  us  in  an  alliance  and  drew  the 
peoples  of  the  two  empires  together  in  the  struggle 
against  the  blasphemers  of  the  goddess,  the  chiefest 
foes  of  Liberty. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  that  the  Russians 
consider  the  measure  of  Freedom  we  have  acquired 
is  complete.  Those  who  admire  our  political 
freedom  the  most,  laugh  the  loudest  at  our  servi- 
tude to  social  convention,  and  are  prone  to  betray 
indignation  at  our  attempt  to  impose  a  moral 
code  on  persons  who  may  possibly  not  accept  the 
principles  of  the  religion  that  enjoins  it  or  believe 
the  revelation,  by  which  it  is  Sanctioned,  to  be 
divine.  In  Russia  the  restraints  on  conduct  are 
less  severe  than  in  England.  Russians  are  dis- 
inclined to  concern  themselves  with  the  morals 
of  their  neighbours.  The  trivial  rules  that  govern 
the  behaviour  of  a  large  number  of  persons  in  our 
own  country  and  form  part  of  the  discipline  of 
English  life  would  be  considered  irksome  by  most 
Russians. 

I  have  sometimes  been  a  good  deal  amused  at 
the  accounts  of  English  life  given  me  by  Russian 
friends.  There  was,  for  instance,  Anastasia  Ivan- 
ovna,  who  went  to  England  with  her  husband 
to  visit  an  English  cousin,  a  lawyer  living  in  a 
provincial  town. 

"  When  we  went  into  the  drawing-room  before 
147 


My  Slav  Friends 

dinner  on  the  first  evening  we  were  there/'  said 
Anastasia,  "  there  was  my  cousin  in  a  '  smoking' 
with  a  starched  shirt  and  lacquered  shoes  and  his 
wife  decolletee.  Of  course,  it  had  never  occurred 
to  us  to  dress  up,  though  I  must  say  I  had  tucked 
my  best  lace-handkerchief  into  my  bodice.  And 
it  wasn't  as  if  they  were  expecting  guests.  I  was 
never  more  astonished  in  my  life." 

"  Perfectly  ridiculous !  "  commented  Anastasia's 
husband. 

"  And  it  wasn't  as  if  she  had  a  pretty  neck  to 
show,"  said  Anastasia  spitefully ;  "  she  had  a  thin 
neck  and  thin  shoulders." 

There,  then,  is  an  expression  of  middle-class 
Russian  opinion  about  one  of  the  most  cherished 
conventions  of  the  English.  And  here  is  the 
view  of  some  persons  of  higher  rank,  Poles.  I  was 
going  to  stay  with  them  for  the  first  time  at  a 
country  house  in  the  kingdom  of  Poland,  where 
life  is  as  simple  as  in  Russia.  The  phaeton  with 
excellent  horses  at  the  railway-station,  the  gates 
of  a  park  thrown  open  by  an  aged  lodge-keeper, 
the  great  house  in  gardens  with  a  lake,  all  made  a 
struggle  into  a  boiled  shirt  that  evening  seem  as 
inevitable  as  the  end  of  a  Greek  tragedy. 

"  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  do  anything  serious," 
said  my  host,  when  I  said  I  was  going  to  get 
ready  for  dinner;  "  comme  un  smoking  ou  un 
jrac." 

And  so  I  did  not  do  anything  serious.  The 
host  appeared  at  dinner  in  a  black  tail-coat  and 

148 


My  Slav  Friends 

his   wife   in   a   high   gown.     They   talked   about 
English  ways. 

"  We  go  to  England  every  year/'  said  my 
hostess,  "  and  the  last  time  we  went  we  were 
asked  to  stay  at  Arundel  Castle.  What  a  place  ! 
Heaven,  I  call  it,  simply  heaven !  So  we  know 
your  English  customs  and  we  think  them  very 
beautiful ;  but  of  course  they  wouldn't  do  for  us 
in  Poland,  where  we  are  simple  people/' 

"  Here  are  we  in  the  depths  of  the  country," 
said  her  husband;  "  of  course,  if  we  have  a 
hunt  it's  a  different  thing,  but  what  would  be  the 
point  in  ordinary  circumstances  of  our  putting  on 
evening  things  for  dinner?  ' 

I  might  have  spoken  of  the  value  of  discipline, 
of  the  appetite  created  by  changing  in  a  frosty 
bedroom,  of  the  agreeable  stimmung  induced  by 
a  boiled  shirt,  but  never  having  considered  the 
question  he  proposed,  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply. 
Besides,  I  was  thinking  of  the  white  indignation 
with  which  an  English  clergyman  of  the  old  school 
had  told  me  of  a  miscreant  who  omitted  to  bring 
evening  clothes  when  he  came  to  stay  at  his  house, 
and  of  an  Englishwoman  who  spoke  of  a  guest  as 
if  she  had  gone  away  with  the  family  plate,  because 
the  wicked  girl  had  appeared  in  only  two  different 
evening  gowns  during  a  visit  of  a  week. 

The  simplicity  of  my  Polish  friends  has  probably 
stood  them  in  stead  in  these  stern  days.  The  tide 
of  war  has  engulfed  their  home,  "our  Paradise," 
they  called  it. 

149 


My  Slav  Friends 

I  have  laboured  a  trivial  point  at  too  great 
length;  let  me  give  a  more  striking  illustration 
of  the  freedom  from  convention  to  be  remarked  in 
Russian  life.  A  friend  of  mine  was  walking  in  the 
grounds  of  a  Russian  country  house  with  one  of 
her  hostess's  daughters,  when  the  girl  suddenly 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  and  stay  with  some  people 
who  lived  twenty  miles  away.  She  rushed  to  the 
stable,  had  a  horse  saddled,  galloped  off  without 
even  taking  the  trouble  to  find  a  hat,  and  returned 
two  days  later,  saying  that  she  had  had  a  delightful 
visit  and  that  her  friends  had  been  enchanted  to 
see  her.  And  nobody,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Englishwoman  who  told  me  the  story,  thought 
her  conduct  in  the  least  odd.  What  a  gulf  be- 
tween that  free  Russian  girl  and  an  English  girl 
of  similar  position  ! 

There  are  Russians  who  affect  English  manners. 
There  are  upstarts  who  try  to  conceal  their  lack 
of  breeding  by  an  affectation  of  foreign  elegance. 
I  know,  for  instance,  of  a  family  in  which  the 
young  ladies,  whose  grandfather  was  a  serf, 
are  daily  beautified  by  a  French  coiffeur,  a 
dressmaker  and  a  manicurist.  These  people  are 
exceptional.  The  ordinary  Russian  detests  con- 
vention. If  he  has  the  means,  he  will  entertain 
lavishly.  But  I  cannot  even  imagine  a  Russian 
and  his  wife,  who  wish  to  ask  friends  to  dine 
or  to  give  a  dance  for  their  daughters,  deciding 
not  to  do  so  because  their  means  do  not  permit  of 
expensive  food  or  fashionable  dresses.  I  cannot 

150 


My  Slav  Friends 

conceive  of  them  saying  :  "  Better  not  to  do  it  at 
all  than  not  to  do  it  well !  "  And  those  charming 
Russian  women  love  pretty  dresses.  They  love 
to  trot  off  and  have  their  hair  done  elaborately 
by  a  clever  Frenchman.  And  if  a  woman  hasn't 
a  pretty  dress,  hasn't  the  two  roubles  that  Pierre 
or  Jacques  would  want  for  doing  her  hair,  it  doesn't 
occur  to  her  that  she  must  mope  at  home  and  de- 
cline an  invitation.  Off  she  goes  to  the  theatre, 
to  a  party,  admires  the  pretty  frocks  and  Mar- 
celle  waving  of  other  women,  just  a  little  thought 
of  envy  in  her  heart,  just  a  tinge  of  longing,  and 
thoroughly  enjoys  herself.  That  pointed  re- 
marks about  sweet  hats  seen  in  shop  windows,  or 
sweeter  hats  in  the  inner  chambers  of  French 
milliners,  are  never  made,  that  lamentable  and 
wholly  untrue  statements  about  having  no  clothes 
never  disturb  the  peace  of  Russian  homes,  I  would 
not  be  so  hardy  as  to  allege ;  for,  after  all,  a  Rus- 
sian woman  is  no  more  an  angel  than  an  English- 
woman; but,  clothes  or  no  clothes,  she  refuses 
to  be  cheated  of  amusement.  Indeed,  there  is  a 
legend  in  Petrograd  of  a  lady  who  came  to  a 
masquerade  in  the  Marinsky  Theatre  dressed  in 
nothing  more  than  a  mask  and  the  ace  of  hearts. 
It  is  said  that  she  was  awarded  the  first  prize  for 
the  prettiest  costume.  And  that  tale  leads  me 
to  deal  with  a  graver  subject  than  the  Russians' 
contempt  for  the  petty  restraints  of  social  con- 
vention, namely,  their  common  assumption  that 
certain  laws  of  Christian  morality  may  be  regarded 


My   Slav   Friends 

merely  as  counsels  of  perfection,  and  that  public 
censure,  or  the  censure  of  society,  on  persons 
whose  lives  are  not  in  conformity  with  these 
commandments  or  counsels  is  an  infringement  of 
individual  liberty. 

I  was  once  talking  to  a  Russian,  an  elderly  man 
of  unimpeachable  moral  character,  about  Russia's 
need  of  greater  freedom,  a  topic  which  his  demo- 
cratic views  allowed  me  to  assume  would  be 
congenial  to  him. 

"  You  English  !  "  he  suddenly  exclaimed  with 
great  vehemence,  "  what  right  have  you  to  talk 
about  Liberty,  when  you  shut  up  your  greatest 
literary  men  in  prison  because  their  morals  are 
not  to  your  liking?  ' 

The  speaker  was,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
a  man  of  the  highest  moral  integrity,  otherwise 
his  words  would  be  of  no  account,  and  as  I  recall 
them  I  seem  to  see  the  flash  of  indignation  in  his 
eyes  as  he  spoke. 

I  think  the  great  popularity  in  Russia  of  the 
works  of  the  writer  to  whom  he  alluded  is  partly 
due  to  the  fact  that  numbers  of  Russians — I  am 
referring  to  serious  men  and  women  of  unblem- 
ished reputation — hold  that  he  was  a  victim  of 
British  hypocrisy.  And  when  Russians  speak  of 
British  hypocrisy,  they  do  not  mean  to  imply  that 
we  are  a  race  of  immoral  persons  pretending  to  be 
moral,  but  they  do  mean  to  imply  that  our  indig- 
nation at  conduct  we  profess  to  consider  immoral 
is  dormant,  until  it  is  roused  by  a  public  scandal. 

152 


My  Slav   Friends 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  it  is  not  in  Russia 
alone  that  hypocrisy  is  believed  to  be  our  be- 
setting sin ;  at  the  other  end  of  Europe,  in  Spain, 
even  the  common  people  can  find  nothing  worse  to 
say  of  a  man  than  that  he  is  guilty  of  hipocresia 
inglesa.  It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  there  is 
no  foundation  for  the  charge.  There  are  secrets 
which  everybody  knows  and  peccadilloes  of  ac- 
quaintances that  are  talked  about  and  laughed  at, 
until  the  day  when  the  publicity  of  the  divorce 
court  changes  smiles  to  frowns  and  closes  hospit- 
able doors.  Useless  to  tell  Russians  that  severity 
supplants  complacency  in  the  interests  of  public 
morality,  useless  to  quote  La  Rochefoucauld's 
invaluable  maxim.  Even  if  they  acquit  you  of 
hypocrisy,  they  will  probably  accuse  you  of 
bigotry,  of  puritanism  or  medievalism,  of  an 
intolerant  and  persecuting  spirit,  of  inability  to 
understand  the  value  of  personal  liberty,  and 
possibly  end  by  saying  that,  being  a  cold  English- 
man, you  do  not  understand  the  nature  of  love. 

No  feature  of  English  life  astonishes  Russians 
more  than  the  equation  we  are  accustomed  to 
require  between  a  man's  private  and  public  life. 
That  the  career  of  a  statesman  should  be  ruined 
by  an  intrigue  with  a  married  woman  seems  to 
them  ludicrous.  It  used  to  be  said  in  Petrograd 
that  one  of  the  advantages  of  being  a  Cabinet 
minister  was  that  one  could  get  a  divorce  through 
the  Holy  Synod  with  great  celerity  and  have  a 
new  wife.  A  few  years  ago  one  of  the  ministers 

153 


My  Slav   Friends 

fell  in  love  with  a  married  woman  and,  while  her 
husband  was  abroad,  induced  the  Holy  Synod  to 
grant  her  a  divorce,  so  that  they  could  be  married. 
Hearing  what  had  happened,  the  lady's  husband, 
a  man  of  high  rank,  returned  to  Russia  and  made 
such  an  ado  that  the  divorce  was  quashed.  How- 
ever, the  lady  finally  obtained  her  freedom  and 
married  the  minister.  All  Petrograd  talked  of 
the  affair.  Accounts  of  it  appeared  in  the  foreign 
press,  and  the  lady  showed  great  amiability  to  the 
correspondent  of  one  of  the  German  newspapers, 
in  order  that  a  defence  of  her  conduct  might  be 
placed  before  the  German  public.  It  did  not 
strike  anybody  that,  in  the  circumstances,  the 
minister  should  be  dismissed.  "Why?"  they 
would  have  asked.  "  What  connection  can  there 
be  between  his  heart  and  his  head?  ' 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  in  Petrograd  one 
year  about  a  progressive  member  of  the  Imperial 
Duma,  who  left  his  wife  somewhere  in  the  pro- 
vinces and  brought  another  lady  to  the  capital, 
a  sensible-looking  young  person  who  dressed 
plainly.  His  indiscretion  did  not  affect  his 
political  career.  Some  people  thought  his  con- 
duct in  bad  taste,  and  a  good  many  said  it  was  a 
pity  that  the  lady  was  a  Jewess. 

It  would  be  wrong  to  infer  from  these  instances 
that  happy  marriages  and  fidelity  are  less  common 
in  Russia  than  in  England.  They  are  not  given 
here  to  provide  a  criterion  of  Russian  morality, 
but  are  adduced  in  order  to  show  the  mental 

154 


My  Slav   Friends 


attitude  of  many  Russians  to  a  grave  question. 
The  moral  code  of  the  Russian  Church  is  identical 
with  that  of  the  Protestant  communions  and, 
except  in  the  matter  of  divorce,  which  it  permits, 
with  that  of  the  Catholic  Church.  The  Church's 
beneficial  influence  on  the  Russian  people  is 
evident  in  the  pages  of  Russian  history,  and  its 
power  to  develop  certain  qualities  of  character 
cannot  fail  to  impress  anybody  acquainted  with 
Russian  life ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  it  has  ever 
been  so  successful  as  its  rivals  in  reconciling  a 
nation  to  the  restraints  it  seeks  to  impose.  Its 
clergy  do  not  possess  the  same  machinery  for 
influencing  their  flocks  that  is  employed  by  the 
Protestant  or  the  Catholic  clergy.  The  exposi- 
tion of  the  word  of  God  in  sermons,  the  chief 
means  adopted  by  Protestant  clergymen  to 
enforce  the  principles  of  Christian  morality,  is 
uncommon  in  Russia,  and  the  rapid  confessions 
made  to  a  priest  once  a  year  have  not  the  same 
value  as  a  means  of  moral  discipline  and  training 
as  the  penitential  system  of  the  Catholics.  Re- 
ligion has  infused  into  the  Russian  character 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Christian  qualities, 
but  it  has  not  given  the  faithful  the  touch  of 
sternness  which  is  characteristic  of  the  attitude 
of  mind  to  the  question  under  discussion  of 
believing  Protestants  and  Catholics.  And  I  beg 
leave  again  to  point  out  that  I  am  comparing 
two  attitudes  of  mind,  and  have  no  intention  of 
making  an  odious  comparison  between  the  con- 

155 


My  Slav   Friends 

duct  of  Russians  and  of  ourselves  or  of  other 
peoples  of  the  West.  A  sharp  remark  made  to 
me  by  a  Russian  Jew,  a  scientist  who  had  lived 
in  England,  may,  however,  be  quoted.  "  I  do 
not  consider  that  you  are  essentially  more  moral 
than  we  are/'  he  said;  "  but  you  are  so  engrossed 
in  making  money  that  you  have  not  the  time  to 
be  immoral/' 

It  must  be  remembered  that  in  Russia  the  people 
whose  political  ideals  are  the  most  pleasing  to 
the  average  Englishman  are  very  often  infidels. 
In  progressive  circles  it  is  not  seldom  that  one 
finds  it  to  be  assumed  that  the  falseness  of 
Christianity  is  too  patent  to  need  demonstration. 
Belief  in  the  principles  of  Christianity  is,  moreover, 
not  infrequently  regarded  as  a  sign  of  intellectual 
feebleness.  The  rejection  of  the  Faith  is  apt  to 
become  a  part  of  the  process  of  the  adoption  of 
Liberal  ideas,  but  at  the  same  time  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind  that  the  war  has  recruited  the 
ranks  of  the  reformers  with  numbers  of  men  and 
women  who,  like  ourselves,  do  not  consider  that 
Christianity  is  inimical  to  progress.  There  has 
not  yet  been  a  sustained  anti-clerical  movement 
in  Russia;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Russian  Liberalism  is  more  akin  to  Continental, 
than  to  British,  Liberalism.  Those  who  reject 
Christianity  ought  not  to  be  judged  by  the 
standard  of  the  Christian  code  of  morals,  except 
in  so  far  as  they  accept  it,  when  they  do  not 
depart  from  the  natural  law.  It  is  unjust  to 

156 


My  Slav  Friends 

say  that  a  Hindoo  is  immoral  because  he  has 
three  wives.  It  is  improper  to  say  that  the 
Greeks  who  first  read  the  Symposium  were 
immoral  only  because  their  conception  of  love 
is  severely  condemned  in  the  Jewish  and  Christian 
codes  of  morality.  In  the  same  way  it  is  as 
unreasonable  to  require  modern  men  and  women 
to  conform  to  a  standard  of  conduct  which  has 
no  higher  sanction  in  their  eyes  than  custom, 
as  it  was  for  our  forefathers  to  require  their  con- 
temporaries to  go  to  the  parish  churches  whether 
they  believed  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  or  not. 
Religious  toleration  must  cover  conduct  as  well 
as  faith,  otherwise  it  is  imperfect.  It  is  as  im- 
proper to  say  that  infidels  are  immoral,  when  they 
contract  free  unions  of  a  permanent  nature,  as 
it  is  to  call  heretics  irreligious  because  they  do 
not  go  to  Mass. 

"  Ivan  Pavlovitch  and  his  wife  were  there," 
said  a  lady  to  me,  in  describing  an  evening  party 
at  which  a  number  of  representative  men  and 
women  of  the  Liberal  party  in  Petrograd  had 
been  present. 

"  His  wife !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  He's  not  married." 

"  But  of  course  he's  married,"  she  said.  "  Tati- 
ana  Vassilovna  is  his  wife." 

"  He  boards  in  her  house,"  I  said,  "  but  that 
is  not  the  same  as  being  married  to  her;  and 
besides,  their  surnames  are  different." 

"  Oh  !  they're  not  married  in  a  legal  sense," 
said  the  lady,  "  but  they  consider  themselves  to 

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My  Slav  Friends 

be  husband  and  wife,  and  naturally  other  people 
do  the  same." 

I  knew  both  Ivan  Pavlovitch  and  Tatiana 
Vassilovna.  They  were  serious  persons  and  they 
have  now  lived  together  for  a  good  many  years, 
in  as  humdrum  a  manner  as  any  bons  bourgeois. 
And  they  are  highly  respected  in  progressive 
society.  Why  they  have  never  been  legally 
married,  I  do  not  know.  Possibly  they  have 
conscientious  objections.  But  I  do  know  that  it 
would  be  monstrous  to  consider  them  immoral. 

A  union  of  this  sort  is  called  a  civil  marriage, 
although  in  Russia  the  celebration  of  marriages  is 
left  exclusively  in  the  hands  of  the  ecclesiastical 
authorities.  Russian  law,  like  the  regulations  of 
the  British  Army,  does  not  recognize  the  fact 
that  there  are  infidels. 

One  afternoon  I  happened  to  be  in  the  law- 
courts  and  overheard  a  woman  asking  an  official 
for  the  necessary  permission  to  visit  a  prisoner. 

'  What  relation  are  you  to  him?  "  asked  the 
official  amiably. 

"  Grazhdanskaya  zhena,  civil  wife/'  she  said 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  entitled  to  a  permit/' 
said  the  representative  of  the  law  which  knows 
nothing  of  civil  wives,  and  the  woman  went  away 
looking  bitterly  disappointed. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  attitude 
of  the  Russians,  believers  and  unbelievers  alike, 
to  the  question  under  discussion  is  different  from 

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My  Slav   Friends 

that  which  ordinarily  obtains  among  ourselves. 
"  Nous,  au  fond  de  notre  esclavage,"  runs  a 
remarkable  sentence  in  the  preface  to  a  book  of 
essays  by  Merejkovsky  and  others;  "nous  n'avons 
jamais  cesse  d'etre  en  secret  des  rebelles  et  des 
anarchist es."  And  I  am  inclined  to  think  the 
statement  is  as  true  in  a  moral  as  it  is  in  a  political 
sense.  The  Russian  chafes  under  moral  restraint 
as  he  does  under  political  restraint.  And  the 
heat  of  his  ardour  for  Freedom  is  so  great  that  he 
is  impelled  to  cry  aloud,  without  pausing  to  think 
of  the  consequences,  that  men  should  be  allowed 
to  do  as  they  like.  And  so,  if  he  does  not  actually 
disown  the  Christian  code  of  morality,  he  is  in- 
clined to  temper  its  severity  by  considerations 
that  the  theologians  would  be  unable  to  ratify. 
He  is  apt  to  hold  that  he  may  do  anything, 
provided  that,  in  his  opinion,  his  action  is  not 
harmful  to  another — a  doctrine  which  is  not 
peculiarly  Russian.  And  he  balances  an  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  with  a 
belief  in  the  boundless  mercy  of  Heaven.  Love 
may  be  an  enemy,  but  he  is  an  enemy  too  mighty 
not  to  make  terms  with,  and  too  glorious  to  make 
those  he  wounds  with  his  golden  darts  ashamed 
of  their  defeat.  And  there  is  a  spell  that  is  very 
commonly  used  in  Russia  to  transform  intrigue 
into  romance  and  to  obliterate  irregularity  of 
behaviour.  It  is  simple  and  potent,  a  mere 
phrase  :  They  love  each  other. 

For  good  or  for  ill  the  Russians  have  acquired 

159 


My  Slav   Friends 


greater  freedom  in  the  moral  than  in  the  political 
sphere.  Yet  here  they  have  won  considerable 
victories  that  may  be  sung  without  misgiving.  I 
propose  to  do  no  more  than  celebrate  the  triumphs 
of  late  years,  and  to  do  so  by  drawing  a  contrast 
between  the  condition  of  Russia  when  I  first 
went  to  live  in  that  country  and  its  condition  at 
the  present  time.  It  is  a  task  from  which  I 
cannot  excuse  myself;  for  the  Russians  them- 
selves consider  the  perseverance  and  success  with 
which,  as  I  am  about  to  narrate,  they  have  forced 
their  way  along  the  path  of  progress  more  credit- 
able to  them  than  are  the  qualities  of  heart  for 
which  they  are  more  often  praised  by  foreigners. 
It  was  at  the  end  of  1904  that  I  went  to  live 
in  Russia.  At  that  time  the  Crown  exercised 
autocratic  power  in  temporal  and  also  in  spiritual 
affairs.  The  nation  had  no  part  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  empire,  and  the  exercise  of  the  most 
sacred  right  of  man,  the  right  to  obey  the  dictates 
of  the  mind  and  the  behests  of  the  conscience  in 
the  choice  of  a  religion,  was  denied  to  the  Russian 
people.  The  Russian  subjects  of  the  Tsar  were 
not  only  required  to  give  unquestioning  obedience 
to  the  laws  he  imposed,  but  also  to  believe  as 
he  believed  and  to  pray  as  he  prayed.  It  was  a 
criminal  offence  to  leave  the  Orthodox  Church, 
and  the  punishment  for  this  crime  was  exile  to 
Siberia.  The  inclusion  of  non-Russian  races  in 
the  empire  and  the  settlement  of  foreigners  in 
Russia  induced  the  State  to  concede  a  measure 

160 


POLISH   PILGRIMS  TO  THE   SHRIXE   OF   OUR    LADY   OF   CZEXSTOCHOWA. 


My  Slav  Friends 

of  tolerance  to  their  religions.  The  magna- 
nimity of  the  Crown  allowed  Dutch  Protestants, 
Armenians,  Lutherans  and  Catholics  to  build 
churches  in  Petrograd  along  the  Nevsky  Prospect, 
which  thus  acquired  the  name  of  the  Street  of 
Tolerance.  The  Poles  and  Lithuanians,  with  the 
exception  of  Catholics  of  the  Greek  rite,  were 
allowed  to  practise  their  religion,  and  a  part 
of  the  endowments  of  the  Polish  Church,  which 
had  been  confiscated  by  the  Government,  was 
allocated  for  the  payment  of  the  Catholic  bishops 
and  clergy  of  Poland.  The  Esthonians,  Letts 
and  Germans  of  the  Baltic  provinces  were  free 
to  remain  Lutherans.  The  British  factory  main- 
tained an  Anglican  Chapel,  and  although  Alex- 
ander II  was  unwilling  to  allow  British  Non- 
conformists to  have  a  church  in  Petrograd,  he 
yielded  to  their  request  when  they  informed  him 
that  their  religion  was  that  of  the  Americans. 
Armenian  Monophysites,  Jews  and  Mohammedans 
had  the  right  to  worship  Almighty  God  in  the 
manner  they  approved.  Parents  belonging  to 
non-Orthodox  confessions  were  not  debarred 
from  initiating  and  educating  their  offspring  in 
the  religion  they  themselves  professed.  It  was 
due  to  this  right  that  Russians  were  occasionally 
to  be  met  who,  having  inherited  their  respective 
creeds  from  non-Russian  ancestors,  were  Catholics, 
or  Lutherans,  or  even  Anglicans  unable  to  speak 
English.  Count  Nesselrode,  once  minister  of 
foreign  affairs,  was,  for  example,  a  member  of 
M  161 


My   Slav   Friends 

the  Church  of  England.  The  privileges  of  non- 
Orthodox  religious  bodies  were  circumscribed  by 
the  law,  and  their  activities  restrained,  by  the 
officials  of  the  Department  of  Foreign  Faiths. 
The  right  to  baptize  Mohammedans  and  Jews 
belonged  to  the  Orthodox  clergy  alone.  There 
was  one  curious  exception  to  this  rule  :  the 
Anglican  pastor  of  Varshava  was  given  the 
privilege  of  receiving  converts  from  Judaism. 
Thus  the  Polish  capital  became  a  clearing-house 
for  Jews  who  preferred  the  principles  of  Pro- 
testantism to  those  of  Orthodoxy.  They  came 
to  the  pastor  from  all  parts  of  the  empire,  were 
instructed  and  baptized,  and,  on  their  return  to 
their  homes,  usually  allied  themselves  with  one 
of  the  Lutheran  or  Calvinistic  bodies.  This  was 
the  most  notable  instance  of  tolerance  in  the 
Russian  empire. 

Under  these  conditions,  which  prevailed  in 
Russia  until  1905,  it  is  clear  that  the  Orthodox 
Church  was  entitled  to  the  name  often  bestowed 
on  her  in  official  documents  and  was  justly  called 
the  Dominating  Church.  The  greatness  of  her 
power  and  the  manner  in  which  the  State  sup- 
ported her  clergy,  even  when  they  resorted  to  the 
most  contemptible  means  to  extend  her  empire, 
must  be  understood  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
triumph  of  Liberty  I  am  about  to  describe. 
It  may  be  useful  to  give  a  concrete  instance  of 
the  spiritual  tyranny  exercised  by  the  Church  in 
combination  with  the  State. 

162 


My  Slav  Friends 

A  Polish  baby,  the  daughter  of  parents  of  good 
family,  was  kidnapped  in  the  streets  of  Varshava 
by  devout  Russians,  taken  to  a  Russian  church, 
baptized,  and,  having  been  legally  registered  as 
a  member  of  the  Orthodox  Church,  returned  to 
its  parents.  They  were  told  what  had  taken 
place,  and,  being  Catholics,  were  greatly  dis- 
tressed. In  order  to  circumvent  the  law  they 
sent  the  child  abroad,  as  soon  as  she  was  old 
enough  to  go  to  school,  hoping  that  in  her  absence 
the  authorities  would  forget  that  she  was,  in  the 
eye  of  the  law,  a  member  of  the  Russian  Church. 
The  girl  returned  to  Poland  when  her  education 
was  finished,  worshipped  with  her  parents,  and 
in  due  course  was  married  according  to  the  rites 
of  the  Catholic  Church.  The  authorities  took 
no  action  and  the  girl's  parents  were  satisfied 
that  the  fatal  baptism  had  been  forgotten.  The 
young  wife  had  a  child  and  it  was  christened. 
Then  the  law  stepped  in.  The  mother  was 
accused  of  the  crime  of  causing  her  child  to  be 
baptized  in  the  Catholic  Church,  whereas,  being 
herself  Orthodox,  she  was  required  by  law  to 
have  the  child  baptized  in  the  Orthodox  Church. 
The  summons  to  answer  this  grave  charge  in  a 
court-of-law  was  addressed  to  her  in  her  maiden 
name,  and  she  was  brutally  described,  in  language 
which  I  do  not  care  to  reproduce,  as  being  the 
mistress  and  not  the  wife  of  her  husband.  That, 
unhappily,  was  her  legal  status ;  for  her  marriage, 
not  having  been  celebrated  by  an  Orthodox 


My  Slav   Friends 

priest,  was  void.  Knowing  the  severity  of  the 
law  in  the  matter,  the  young  couple  hurriedly 
left  Poland  and  settled  abroad. 

This  episode  took  place  fifty  years  ago ;  but  I 
myself  know  a  Polish  peasant,  a  man  of  some 
thirty-eight  years  of  age,  who  had  been  kidnapped 
in  the  same  manner  and  baptized  when  he  was  a 
baby.  He  laughed  as  he  told  me  that  when  the 
kidnappers  returned  him  to  his  mother  and 
triumphantly  told  her  what  had  happened,  she 
put  him  in  a  bath,  gave  him  a  good  soaping,  and 
threw  the  suds  to  the  pigs.  But  he  was  grave 
when  he  said  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  into 
Galicia  to  be  married  according  to  the  Catholic 
rite,  that  his  marriage  was  not  recognized  by 
the  law,  and  that  his  children  were  therefore 
considered  illegitimate.  On  his  passport  he  was 
described  as  a  bachelor  and  a  member  of  the 
Orthodox  Church. 

This  account  of  the  religious  situation  in 
Russia  eleven  years  ago,  and  these  tales,  throw 
into  relief  the  splendour  and  courage  of  the  action 
of  Nicholas  II  in  April  1905,  when  he  bestowed 
the  inestimable  gift  of  religious  liberty  on  his 
subjects.  That  he  needed  courage  to  destroy 
with  a  stroke  of  the  pen  the  imposing  and  ancient 
fa$ade  of  intolerance,  behind  which  Orthodoxy  sat 
at  ease,  is  evident  in  the  light  of  our  own  history. 
What  proposal  to  encroach  on  the  privileges, 
given  by  the  State  to  the  clergy  of  this  country, 
has  not  been  resented  by  them  and  led  to  bitter- 

164 


My  Slav   Friends 

ness  and  division  in  the  nation  ?  The  proposal 
to  admit  to  the  universities  youths  who  were 
unable  to  accept  the  doctrines  of  the  thirty-nine 
articles  of  religion,  to  allow  nonconformist  divines 
to  read  prayers  over  their  dead  in  the  grave- 
yards of  parish  churches,  to  disestablish  the 
Welsh  Church — these  and  other  proposals  of  a 
like  nature  have  invariably  aroused  the  hostility 
of  the  clergy  and  of  a  section  of  the  laity.  Such 
being  the  case  in  England,  it  can  be  readily  under- 
stood that  in  Russia,  where  the  established 
Church  is  more  powerful  and  the  proportion  of 
the  nation  that  performs  the  practices  of  religion 
far  larger  than  in  this  country,  so  startling  an 
encroachment  on  the  privileges  of  the  Church  as 
the  introduction  of  religious  liberty  was  bound 
to  excite  the  keenest  resentment.  And  the  Tsar 
had  to  act  alone.  He  could  not  shelter  himself, 
as  Queen  Victoria  did  when  she  reluctantly  signed 
the  bill  providing  for  the  disestablishment  of  the 
Church  of  Ireland,  behind  a  parliament,  for  there 
was  no  parliament  to  afford  him  protection.  He 
knew  that  the  anger  of  the  clergy  and  the  con- 
servative elements  of  the  nation  would  fall  on 
him  alone.  It  is  to  the  lasting  credit  of  Nicholas 
II  that  he  did  not  flinch  at  the  prospect  of  the 
storm  he  knew  that  his  action  would  evoke ;  but 
the  glory  of  a  great  reform  is  not  his  alone. 
It  belongs  in  part  to  the  progressive  ranks  of 
the  nation;  for  the  Emperor  could  hardly  have 
acted  as  he  did,  had  he  not  been  assured  of  the 

165 


My  Slav  Friends 

support  of  a  considerable  section  of  the  Russian 
people. 

That  the  Manifesto  of  April  1905  made  a  real, 
and  not  a  sham,  reform  may  be  seen  in  the  follow- 
ing extract  from  a  report  issued  by  the  Procurator 
of  the  Holy  Synod — 

"  Between  I7th  April,  1905,  and  December 
1907,  in  9  dioceses  of  the  south-west,  170,936 
persons  left  the  Orthodox  Church  for  the 
Catholic;  in  14  dioceses  of  the  Volga,  the 
Urals  and  Siberia,  36,299  persons  embraced 
Mohammedanism,  and  in  4  dioceses  of  the 
Baltic  provinces  and  Olenetz,  10,964  persons 
adopted  the  Protestant  faith/' 

In  another  chapter  I  shall  have  occasion  to 
speak  of  the  relief  that  this  measure  gave  to  a 
multitude  of  humble  people  in  the  east  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Poland. 

An  enumeration  of  the  events  that  immediately 
preceded  the  issue  of  the  April  proclamation 
might  easily  lead  to  a  false  conclusion.  In  January 
1905,  Port  Arthur  fell.  In  February  the  battle 
of  Mukden  was  fought.  In  the  same  month  the 
Tsar's  uncle,  the  Grand  Duke  Serge,  was  assassi- 
nated. In  view  of  these  facts,  it  may  be  asked, 
was  not  the  reform  extorted  from  an  unwilling- 
sovereign  by  military  disaster  and  revolutionary 
activity  ?  That  is  a  view  I  do  not  hold  and  have 
never  held.  Some  years  before  the  publication 

166 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  the  April  Manifesto  the  Tsar  told  Pere  Legrange, 
a  French  Dominican,  that  sooner  or  later  religious 
liberty  would  have  to  be  introduced  into  Russia. 
The  disasters  of  the  Japanese  war  and  the  unrest 
in  the  country  provided  him  with  an  opportunity 
he  welcomed  to  make  a  revolutionary  change. 
His  sincerity  in  the  matter  may  be  judged  from 
an  incident  told  me  by  a  Polish  acquaintance, 
which  I  will  tell  in  my  friend's  words. 

"  The  Tsar  solved  a  difficulty  for  us/'  said  the 
Pole.  "  As  you  know,  my  wife  is  Russian  and, 
although  I  am  a  Catholic,  we  were  married  by 
an  Orthodox  priest.  Accordingly,  when  we  had 
a  child,  we  were  bound  to  have  it  baptized  in 
the  Orthodox  Church.  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
have  been  married  twice  and  my  children  by  my 
first  wife  are  all  Catholics.  So,  when  this  baby 
arrived,  I  and  my  wife  talked  over  the  matter 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  very 
inconvenient  to  have  two  religions  in  the  family, 
and  that  if  it  could  possibly  be  arranged  we  would 
have  the  child  baptized  by  the  Catholics.  My 
wife  had  been  governess  to  the  imperial  children, 
and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  ask  the  Empress 
to  be  the  child's  godmother;  so  when  she  went 
to  the  palace  to  ask  her  to  do  us  this  honour, 
she  told  her  our  wish  and  asked  whether  it  could 
not  be  realized.  The  Empress  agreed  that  it 
would  be  better  to  have  all  the  children  of  the 
same  religion,  was  uncertain  whether  the  child 
could  be  legally  christened  by  a  Catholic  priest, 

167 


My  Slav  Friends 

and  said  she  would  ask  the  Emperor.  He  was 
in  no  doubt  about  the  matter;  he  had  given 
freedom  of  religion,  he  said,  and  the  child  could 
therefore  be  baptized  in  the  confession  which 
the  parents  desired.  Accordingly  the  baby  was 
christened  by  a  Catholic  clergyman  and  the 
Empress  was  sponsor/' 

I  regret  to  state  that  in  this  transaction  the 
Emperor  and  Empress  were  guilty  of  a  flagrant 
breach  of  the  law;  but,  from  another  point  of 
view,  I  am  happy  to  place  their  guilt  on  record, 
because  it  shows  that  their  hearts,  to  use  a  homely 
phrase  in  commenting  on  a  domestic  tale,  are  in 
the  right  place. 

Religious  liberty  is  not  yet  as  full  in  Russia  as 
it  is  in  our  own  country.  Non-Orthodox  clergy- 
men, for  example,  are  not  allowed  to  carry  on  an 
active  propaganda  to  spread  their  tenets.  The 
spirit  of  persecution  is  not  yet  exorcised  and 
some  of  the  clergy  still  resent  the  loss  of  past 
privileges.  The  methods  by  which  Eulogius, 
Bishop  of  Chelm,  sought  to  drive  the  Uniats, 
Catholics  permitted  by  Rome  to  have  the  Greek 
rite  and  a  married  clergy,  into  the  Orthodox  fold 
during  the  Russian  occupation  of  Galicia,  show 
that  the  clergy  can  only  be  restrained  by  the 
vigilance  of  the  secular  arm.  I  do  not  care  to 
dwell  on  this  subject,  which  is  as  painful  to  the 
vast  majority  of  Russians  as  it  is  to  Englishmen. 
It  will  suffice  to  say  that  the  proceedings  of  this 
prelate  led  more  than  two  thirds  of  the  members 

168 


My  Slav  Friends 

of  the  Imperial  Duma  to  include  in  the  list  of 
reforms,  which  they  desire  to  be  made  immediately, 
the  complete  cessation  of  religious  persecution. 
But  apart  from  this  lamentable  episode,  there  is 
the  difference  of  light  and  darkness  between  the 
situation  as  it  is  now  and  as  it  was  when  I  first 
went  to  live  in  Russia.  And,  as  I  have  indicated, 
the  credit  for  this  beneficent  reform  must  be 
shared  by  the  Emperor  and  the  Russian  people. 

Six  months  after  the  concession  of  liberty  of 
conscience,  the  nation  forced  the  Crown  to  establish 
a  form  of  representative  government.  The  glory 
of  this  great  achievement  belongs  to  the  Russian 
people  alone.  They  encountered  to  the  last  the 
opposition  of  the  Emperor  to  their  demands.  In 
May  1905  the  Russian  fleet  was  annihilated  in 
the  battle  of  Tsushima.  The  spirit  of  rebellion 
was  in  the  land.  At  that  dark  hour  the  Zemstvo 
Congress  of  Moscow,  which  was  an  assembly  of 
representatives  of  all  the  local  government  boards 
of  Russia,  sent  an  urgent  appeal  to  the  Emperor 
to  grant  a  constitution.  A  favourable  reply  was 
received,  and  in  August  a  scheme  for  the  creation 
of  a  representative  body,  to  assist  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country,  was  propounded  in  an 
imperial  Manifesto.  This  concession,  which  had 
been  given  with  a  good  grace,  did  not  satisfy  the 
national  demands;  for  the  body  the  Emperor 
proposed  to  create  would  have  had  consultative 
and  not  legislative  functions.  The  nation  flouted 
the  proposal.  The  Emperor  refused  to  go  further, 

169 


My  Slav  Friends 

and,  in  consequence,  a  deadlock  ensued.     Revo- 
lutionary activity  continued  unabated. 

I  would  not  care  to  affirm  that  the  Emperor 
set  great  store  on  the  conservation  to  himself 
and  to  his  house  of  the  prerogatives  of  autocracy. 
I  should  hesitate  to  assert  that  love  of  power 
made  him  refuse  to  abandon  the  godlike  part  of 
a  monarch  cuncta  supercilio  moventis.  There  is, 
I  think,  a  widespread  belief  in  this  country  that 
the  autocratic  power  of  the  Russian  Tsars  was 
in  itself  evil.  In  the  past  people  have  denounced 
Tsardom  with  the  same  vigour  and  the  same  want 
of  consideration  that  they  have  displayed  when 
they  have  denounced  Popery.  Tsardom,  like 
Popery,  became  a  sinister  term,  calculated  to 
make  an  honest  Englishman  shudder.  Even  a 
superficial  knowledge  of  Russian  history  is  suffi- 
cient to  show  one  that  the  autocratic  power  of 
the  Russian  sovereigns  has  been,  to  say  the  least, 
one  of  the  chief  factors  in  making  Russia  great 
and  mighty.  The  inheritor  of  that  power  might 
well  hesitate  before  he  abandoned  it.  He  might 
well  reflect  that  he  would  hardly  bear  the  title 
of  King  of  Poland,  had  the  power  of  the  Polish 
kings  not  been  severely  limited  by  their  subjects. 
He  could  not  fail  to  ask  himself  whether  the 
renunciation  required  of  him  would  be  beneficial 
to  his  people.  Whatever  his  private  views  about 
the  ideal  rule  of  a  country,  he  might  doubt 
whether  the  time  had  come  to  yield  the  helm  of 
the  state  to  the  Russian  democracy.  I  am  aware 

170 


My  Slav  Friends 

that  I  am  passing  into  the  realm  of  speculation, 
but  assuming,  as  we  have  the  clearest  right  to 
do,  that  Nicholas  II  was  animated  by  a  single- 
hearted  desire  to  benefit  his  subjects,  it  can 
hardly  be  doubted  that  such  considerations  as 
have  been  indicated  governed  his  refusal  to  com- 
ply with  the  wishes  of  the  Russian  people.  The 
peasants  call  him  Little  Father,  and  I  hardly 
think  I  am  going  too  far  if  I  offer  the  opinion 
that,  faced  with  that  urgent  demand  for  constitu- 
tional liberties,  that  resounded  over  the  Russian 
land  in  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1905,  he 
felt  like  a  father  whose  son,  come  to  manhood, 
demands  unaccustomed  liberty,  the  right  to  come 
and  go  as  he  likes,  the  right  to  order  his  life  as 
he  wishes,  without  parental  supervision  or  in- 
terference. Where  is  the  parent  who  does  not 
hesitate  in  this  crisis  in  the  life  of  a  lad?  Will 
it  be  wise  to  yield  ?  Has  the  time  come  to  concede 
the  coveted  latchkey  ?  Supposing  the  boy  comes 
to  harm  ?  But  in  the  end  it  is  always  the  boy 
who  wins.  And  it  was  like  that  in  Russia.  The 
Russian  people  realized  their  strength  and,  glory- 
ing in  it,  determined  that  they  would  no  longer  be 
treated  as  children. 

The  instrument  with  which  the  Russian  people 
finally  extorted  the  concessions  they  demanded 
was  a  general  strike.  It  began  with  a  strike  of 
the  engine-drivers  of  the  Moscow-Kazan  railway, 
which  was  caused  by  a  false  rumour  of  the  arrest 
in  Petrograd  of  delegates  of  the  railway  men. 

171 


My  Slav  Friends 

That  false  rumour  was  the  spark  that  set  all 
Russia  ablaze.  The  strike  of  engine-drivers  of 
a  single  railway  developed  into  the  most  imposing 
strike  which  has  ever  taken  place,  brought  the 
life  of  Russia  to  a  standstill,  and  effected  a  change 
in  the  constitution  of  the  state  which  it  might 
have  been  thought  that  only  a  bloody  revolution 
could  have  made. 

How  was  this?  The  success  of  the  general 
strike  of  October  1905  was  due  to  the  profound 
unrest  throughout  the  empire  and  the  conviction 
of  almost  every  section  of  society  that  life  in 
Russia  would  be  unbearable,  until  the  most 
drastic  changes  had  been  made  in  the  system  of 
government.  The  workmen  were  convinced  that 
they  would  be  unable  to  improve  their  economic 
position  until  the  autocracy  had  been  swept 
away.  Their  view  is  summed  up  in  the  saying 
of  a  mechanic  :  "  The  employers'  oppression  is 
multiplied  tenfold  by  the  double-headed  eagle." 
The  feeling  of  the  peasants  may  be  gauged  by 
the  revolutionary  character  of  a  resolution  passed 
in  the  summer  of  1905  by  a  congress  at  Moscow, 
which  was  attended  by  a  hundred  representatives 
of  the  Peasant  Unions  of  twenty-two  governments 
and  by  twenty-five  representatives  of  the  more 
educated  classes.  The  resolution  was  as  follows— 

"  That  the  land  must  be  considered  the  common 
property  of  all  the  people,  that  private  property 
must  be  abolished,  that  the  Monastery,  Church, 

172 


My  Slav  Friends 

Imperial  Estate,  Cabinet  and  Tsar's  lands  must 
be  taken  without  compensation,  and  that  the 
land  of  private  owners  must  be  taken  partly 
with  and  partly  without  compensation ;  that  the 
detailed  conditions  of  the  mobilization  of  private 
lands  must  be  defined  by  the  coming  Constitutional 
Convention  or  Constituent  Assembly/'  x 

This  drastic  resolution  should  be  inwardly 
digested  by  anybody  who  is  inclined  to  regard 
the  Russian  peasant  merely  as  a  naive  person 
with  a  picturesque  habit  of  crossing  himself 
before  icons. 

The  workmen  and  peasants  were  not  the  only 
classes  who  felt  the  necessity  for  profound 
changes.  The  country  gentry  found  themselves 
in  a  difficult  position  in  view  of  the  attitude  of 
the  peasants,  and  were  ready  to  welcome  any 
solution  of  the  situation  which  would  have  quieted 
the  unrest  in  the  country.  The  professional  and 
business  classes,  either  on  principle  or  for  less 
lofty  reasons,  desired  to  see  constitutional  liberties 
granted.  Numbers  of  professional  unions  had 
been  formed  and  resolutions  had  been  passed  at 
meetings,  or  at  banquets  in  cases  when  the  police 
forbade  meetings,  in  favour  of  a  representative 
system  of  government. 

1  Quoted  in  Professor  Mayor's  An  Economic  History  of 
Russia,  vol.  ii.  The  detailed  history  of  the  events  which 
preceded  the  publication  of  the  October  Manifesto  should  be 
read  in  this  admirable  work,  to  which  I  am  indebted  for 
much  information. 

173 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  How  is  it  that  I  never  hear  you  speak  of 
your  friend  Princess  X?  "  I  once  asked  a  woman 
with  a  pretty  taste  in  Paris  fashions. 

"  She  worked  at  the  post-office  during  the  postal 
strike/'  was  the  answer.  "  Since  then  I  have 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her/' 

The  answer  may  serve  to  show  how  wide  was 
the  circle  of  the  movement  begun  by  those 
engine-drivers  of  the  Moscow-Kazan  railway. 
The  strike,  which  began  on  October  2Oth,  spread 
to  other  railway  lines  with  great  rapidity.  Five 
days  later  the  only  part  of  the  empire  with  which 
Petrograd  was  in  railway  communication  was 
Finland.  The  nation  was  on  strike.  Factories 
were  empty.  Schools  were  unattended.  Bank 
clerks  and  numbers  of  Government  officials  refused 
to  work.  Petrograd  became  totally  isolated.  At 
night  the  cities  of  the  empire  were  in  darkness. 
There  were  no  letters.  There  were  no  telegrams. 
There  were  no  newspapers.  Russia  was  a  para- 
lytic. And  the  Emperor  and  the  ministers 
realized  that  they  had  a  political  revolution  to 
deal  with.  Had  they  wished  to  crush  it,  they 
did  not  possess  the  necessary  means;  for  they 
were  deprived  of  the  machinery  for  communicating 
orders  to  the  civil  and  military  authorities.  They 
took  the  only  course  open  to  them.  On  October 
30th  (i7th  O.  S.)  the  Manifesto  of  Liberties  was 
issued  by  the  Tsar.  The  promises  made  in  that 
Manifesto  have  not  all  been  carried  into  effect; 
but  the  legislative  bodies  it  created  are  evidence 

174 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  the  splendour  of  the  victory  won  by  the  Russian 
people.  Although  the  democratic  character  of  the 
Imperial  Duma  has  been  impaired  by  a  change 
in  the  franchise — in  the  light  of  the  history  of 
parliament  in  our  own  country  I  should  not  care 
to  hazard  the  opinion  that  the  change  was  un- 
wise— yet  it  remains  an  assembly  which  exercises 
an  effective  check  on  the  autocratic  power  of 
the  Crown.  No  new  laws  are  permanently  im- 
posed on  the  nation  without  its  consent.  From 
its  tribune  the  administration  of  the  country  by 
the  Government  can  be  criticized,  and  is  criticized, 
with  the  utmost  candour.  The  Imperial  Duma 
stands  as  evidence  of  the  love  of  progress  and 
the  passion  for  Freedom  that  animate  the  Russian 
people.  Go  to  the  Russian  House  of  Parliament, 
the  Italian  palace  in  which  Catherine  II  and  her 
Court  danced  minuets.  Look  around.  Listen. 
This  high  assembly  has  no  venerable  history. 
Its  rights  have  not  been  wrested  from  a  sovereign 
by  haughty  nobles,  by  bishops,  by  the  learned. 
This  has  been  called  into  being  by  engine-drivers, 
by  black-handed  workmen,  by  country  yokels, 
by  post-office  girls  and  telegraphists,  by  doctors, 
lawyers,  village  school-teachers,  children,  by  nihil- 
ists and  country  gentlemen,  by  anarchists  and 
socialists  and  women  who  pray  to  icons.  Do  you 
want  a  proof  of  the  Russian  people's  allegiance 
to  Liberty?  Do  you  want  an  assurance  that 
you  have  been  wise  to  seek  the  friendship  of  the 
Russian  people?  Circumspice. 

175 


My  Slav  Friends 

And  do  not  think  that  the  Russian  people  will 
rest  until  they  have  caught  us  up,  until  they  have 
outstripped  us,  in  the  path  of  progress.  I  saw 
the  Tsar  pass  down  the  St.  George's  Hall  of  the 
Winter  Palace,  after  he  had  pronounced  the  first 
speech  from  the  throne  that  a  Russian  monarch 
has  addressed  to  legislative  assemblies.  To  his 
right  the  brilliant  members  of  the  Upper  House 
cheered.  To  his  left  the  sombre  mass  of  the 
members  of  the  Lower  House  was  silent.  Le 
silence  des  peuples  est  la  lefon  des  rois,  and  in  the 
recollection  of  that  great  silence,  while  the  cheers 
of  the  Russian  people  are  ringing  in  his  ears,  it 
may  be  presumed  that  Nicholas  II  will  regard 
with  sympathy  the  proposals  now  made  by  a 
majority  of  the  present  Imperial  Duma.  Let 
me  set  out  the  splendid  list- 
Home  Rule  for  Poland. 
A  conciliatory  policy  regarding  the  Finnish 
question. 

An  amnesty  for  persons  condemned  for 
political  and  religious  offences  not  of  a 
criminal  character. 

The  complete  cessation  of  religious  perse- 
cution. 

The  removal  of  restrictions  on  the  Jews. 
The  recognition   of  the   legality   of  trade 
unions. 

And  in  considering  that  list,  it  should  be  borne 
in  mind  that  the  men  who  advocate  these  changes 

176 


My  Slav  Friends 


form  two-thirds  of  a  Duma,  representing  the 
moderate  elements  of  the  nation,  which  has 
hitherto  been  considered  pusillanimous  and  sub- 
servient to  the  wishes  of  the  Government.  The 
last  elections,  moreover,  were  supervised  by  a 
late  Procurator  of  the  Holy  Synod,  who  made 
use  of  all  the  jerrymandering  devices  a  convenient 
electoral  law  placed  at  his  disposal.  That  the 
present  Duma  should  urge  these  sweeping  reforms 
on  the  Government  is  in  itself  a  proof  of  the 
rapidity  with  which  ideas,  considered  extreme 
ten  years  ago,  have  been  assimilated  by  the 
Russian  nation. 

It  will  not  surprise  me  if  Nicholas  II  opens  a 
Polish  parliament  in  Varshava  before  George  V 
opens  an  Irish  parliament  in  Dublin.  And  I 
pray  to  all  my  saints  that  the  British  people  may 
not  receive  this  crushing  humiliation. 

You  are  beginning  to  think  that  the  Russians 
are  too  venturesome  ?  You  are  all  for  progress, 
but  you  believe  that  the  slower  the  processes  of 
progress  the  better?  You  begin  to  feel  a  little 
giddy  at  the  rapidity  with  which  the  Russians 
abandon  Byzantine  for  French  manners  and 
clothes,  at  the  suddenness  with  which  they  sub- 
stitute parliamentary  for  autocratic  government  ? 
You  ask  whether,  in  the  circumstances,  it  is  quite 
wise,  apart  from  the  war,  to  be  too  intimate  with 
them?  You  want  to  know  where  on  earth  they 
will  get  to  and  where  they  will  land  us  ? 

These  apprehensions,   if  they  exist,   I   cannot 
N  177 


My  Slav  Friends 


allay.  That  final  question,  if  it  be  asked,  I 
cannot  answer.  And  I  cannot  even  suggest  that 
consolation  may  be  found  in  the  statement  of  a 
leader-writer  of  the  Times,  who  pointed  out  that 
the  demands  of  the  Duma  show  the  desire  of 
the  Russian  people  for  orderly  progress ;  since  his 
inability  to  understand  the  spirit  of  the  peoples 
of  Russia  is  apparent  in  his  employment  of 
the  word  orderly.  It  is  not  in  their  genius  to 
proceed  sedately,  as  we  have  done,  along  the 
path  of  progress.  Our  elderly  deportment  seems 
absurd  to  them;  they  are  young  and  prefer  to 
take  flying  leaps.  Let  us  beware  lest  they  out- 
strip us  and  put  us  to  shame.  Is  the  day  far 
distant  when  they  will  take  us  by  the  hand  and 
lead  us  into  a  temple  of  Freedom,  fairer  than  any 
we  have  seen,  whose  roof  will  be  the  sky  and  whose 
floor  the  holy  Russian  land  ? 


178 


CHAPTER  IX 

I   HAD  no  kettle. 

It  was  annoying.  It  was  even  exasperating. 
All  the  other  passengers  had  kettles.  There  were 
three  kettles  on  the  rack  at  the  end  of  the  long 
carriage.  Between  me  and  the  peasant  with  a 
fringe  of  straight  yellow  hair,  who  sat  at  the  other 
end  of  the  uncomfortable  wooden  seat,  was  a 
bundle  done  up  in  a  chequered  handkerchief ;  tied 
to  it  was  a  round,  a  perfectly  new,  a  shining  kettle. 
An  old  woman,  whom  I  had  seen  lighting  a  candle 
before  the  holy  icon  in  the  booking-office,  sat 
opposite  the  peasant.  Her  bundle  was  enormous. 
It  contained,  as  she  informed  the  peasant  later, 
three  cheeses  and  a  large  piece  of  ham,  as  well 
as  her  mattress,  bedding,  clothes,  and  an  icon  of 
the  Kazan  Mother  of  God,  given  her  by  her  father 
forty  years  before,  when  he  lay  a-dying.  And 
beside  the  enormous  bundle  lay  an  enamelled  mug 
and  a  kettle.  It  was  not  a  smart  kettle.  Its 
sides  were  battered  and  its  surface  dull;  but  I 
felt  that  the  possession  of  it  gave  the  old  woman 
the  right  to  be  considered  an  experienced  traveller. 
And  there  was  I  without  a  kettle.  It  was  most 
annoying  !  I  had  become  weary  of  the  city  and 
had  determined  to  flee  from  its  artificiality  and 

179 


My  Slav  Friends 

to  throw  aside  its  restraints.  For  a  brief  space  I 
would  be  as  free  and  live  as  simply  as  any  moujik. 
My  portmanteaux  had  been  sent  to  Varshava, 
the  beautiful  city  which  Englishmen  call  Warsaw, 
a  hideous  name  they  have  learnt  from  the  Germans, 
and  I  was  to  linger  on  the  journey,  stopping  where 
I  liked  and  when  I  liked.  It  had  seemed  so  easy, 
when  I  left  my  rooms  in  Petrograd  for  the  railway- 
station,  to  travel  in  a  third-class  railway-carriage,  to 
be  hail-fellow-well-met  with  my  fellow-passengers 
and  to  pass  as  one  of  the  crowd ;  but  even  before 
the  train  started  my  difficulties  began.  I  was 
dressed  in  a  black  cotton  blouse,  black  breeches, 
top  boots  and  a  round  black  cap  with  a  peak.  I 
imagined  I  looked  like  a  workman  with  socialist 
views,  and  then  I  discovered  that  the  effect  I  had 
desired  to  produce  was  spoilt  by  my  neglect  to 
bring  a  kettle.  I  was  convinced  that  it  was  the 
absence  of  a  kettle  that  made  the  man  and  the 
old  woman  look  me  up  and  down  suspiciously.  I 
hoped  that  they  were  merely  asking  themselves 
whether  I  was  too  poor  to  buy  a  kettle,  or  whether 
I  was  a  thriftless  person,  prepared  to  buy  expen- 
sive glasses  of  tea  at  wayside  stations.  Then  I 
caught  sight  of  my  hands  and  felt  ashamed.  They 
did  not  look  in  the  least  like  the  hands  of  a  work- 
man. They  looked  useless  hands,  fit  for  nothing, 
as  they  say.  I  began  to  grow  critical.  My  boots 
were  too  smart,  the  tops  were  too  narrow,  to  pass 
muster  in  a  Russian  third-class  railway-carriage. 
I  hoped  that  I  should  not  be  obliged  to  put  on  my 

180 


My  Slav   Friends 

overcoat,  because  it  had  a  waist.  I  became  an 
inverted  snob.  I  wondered  what  the  old  woman 
would  think  of  me  if  she  knew  that  Phillipe,  a 
Paris  coiffeur,  the  only  possible  coiffeur  in  Petro- 
grad,  received  a  daily  tip  from  me  of  twenty 
kopecks,  that  Miron,  the  hall-porter,  regretted  my 
absence  because  it  deprived  him  of  another  daily 
twenty  kopecks  for  opening  the  door  of  nights, 
that  Vassili,  who  takes  care  of  my  hat  while  I  lunch 
at  the  Hotel  de  France,  was  also  the  poorer  by 
twenty  kopecks  a  day.  Then  I  became  conscious 
that  the  old  woman  was  staring  at  the  brown 
leather  bag  at  my  side.  It  was  a  shabby  bag, 
but  her  glance  made  me  certain  that  it  gave  me  an 
exotic  air,  and  I  was  certain  that  she  was  talking 
about  me  when  she  bent  forward  and  spoke  to  the 
man. 

An  elderly  peasant,  with  a  long  beard,  and  also 
a  kettle,  got  in  and  took  the  place  opposite  me. 
Then  the  train  started.  Everybody  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  They  made  the  holy  sign  from 
right  to  left.  That  was  a  thing  which  nothing  in 
the  world  would  have  induced  me  to  do.  I  would 
willingly  have  crossed  myself  from  left  to  right, 
but  to  have  made  the  gesture  the  opposite 
way  would  have  been  to  deny  my  heritage  of 
Latin  culture.  In  the  land  of  controversies 
about  crosses,  of  discussions  about  the  efficacy  of 
crosses  made  with  two  fingers  or  made  with 
three,  of  the  propriety  of  Swiss  crosses  and  six- 
limbed  crosses,  I  felt  as  obstinate  as  a  persecuted 

181 


My  Slav  Friends 

Russian  nonconformist  of  the  seventeenth  century 
and  resolved  to  bear  the  scorn  of  my  com- 
panions rather  than  simulate  agreement  with  the 
doctrines  of  Photius  and  Michael  Cerularius.  I 
abstained  from  crossing  myself,  thereby  placing 
myself  under  suspicion  of  infidelity.  The  old 
woman  evidently  noticed  my  lack  of  piety,  and 
the  expression  of  her  face  led  me  to  suppose 
that  she  was  of  opinion  that  I  should  come  to 
no  good.  Presently  she  leant  back  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

"  That's  a  nice  bag  you've  got,"  said  the  elderly 
peasant  opposite  me.  "  I  daresay  you  gave  as 
much  as  twenty  roubles  for  that." 

"  Twenty-five,"  I  said  truthfully. 

"  Twenty-five  roubles,"  he  repeated;  "  vot  kak  ! 
and  are  you  living  in  Petrograd?  ' 

"  Da,  da,  da,"  I  said,  which  means  yes,  yes, 
yes. 

"  And  how  do  you  live?  "  he  asked.  "  Have 
you  a  flat  ?  or  have  you  a  room  ?  or  do  you  live 
in  a  family?  ' 

I  said  I  had  a  room. 

"  And  are  your  parents  alive?  "  he  asked. 

I  nodded. 

"  And  are  they  living  in  Petrograd?  ' 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  they're  in  England." 

"  Very,  very  far  away,"  he  said.  "  Have  you 
been  in  England?  ' 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  was  there  not  very  long 
ago." 

182 


My  Slav   Friends 


"  Horspidy  !  ''  he  exclaimed.  :t  Good  Lord  ! 
And  how  were  the  crops  looking  on  your  way 
back?  " 

The  young  man  with  the  yellow  fringe  of  hair 
falling  into  his  eyes  appeared  to  interest  himself 
in  our  conversation  when  he  heard  England 
mentioned.  "  And  where  are  you  going  now?  '' 
he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know/'  I  answered. 

"  But  you  must  know/'  he  exclaimed,  with 
such  vehemence  that  the  old  woman  opened  her 
eyes.  "  Here's  a  young  man,"  he  said  to  her 
excitedly,  "  who's  got  into  the  train  and  doesn't 
know  where  he's  going.  Did  anybody  ever  hear 
a  thing  like  that?  " 

"  He  hasn't  got  a  ticket,"  said  the  old  woman 
laconically. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  young  man;  "  he  hasn't 
got  a  ticket." 

"  You  haven't  got  a  ticket,"  said  the  elderly 
peasant  with  the  long  beard,  looking  at  me 
solemnly. 

"  Little  dove,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  it  can't 
be  done;  I've  tried  it  myself.  The  control 
on  this  train  is  something  dreadfuj.  Ticket- 
collectors  keep  asking  for  tickets,  and  they're 
controlled  by  inspectors,  just  to  see  they  don't 
take  any  little  bits  of  silver  and  do  a  good  turn  to 
poor  folks.  Many's  the  time  I've  travelled  in  the 
train  all  day  for  fifteen  kopecks,  and  I  don't  know 
what  we're  coming  to.  And  what  poor  people 


My   Slav   Friends 


who  haven't  money  to  buy  tickets  are  going  to  do 
God  knows  !  You'll  be  bundled  out  at  the  next 
station.  And  God  be  with  you." 

"  But  I  have  got  a  ticket/'  I  said. 

"  Then  you  know  where  you're  going  to,"  said 
the  elderly  peasant. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  Then  why  make  all  this  fuss  ?  "  said  the  young 
man ;  "  why  can't  you  tell  us  in  a  straightforward 
way  where  you're  going  to  ?  ' 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  know,"  I  said  rather  tartly. 

"Where's  your  ticket?'  asked  the  young 
man. 

It  was  not  in  the  ticket-pocket  of  my  breeches. 
It  was  not  in  either  of  the  side  pockets.  It  was 
not  in  the  back  pocket.  My  three  fellow-passengers 
sat  and  watched  me  fumbling.  The  old  woman 
and  young  man  looked  at  each  other  in  a  manner 
that  made  it  clear  that  they  were  certain  they 
had  caught  me  red-handed  in  an  attempt  to 
deceive  them.  Then  I  remembered  that  I  had 
put  my  ticket  in  my  cap  and  obliged  them  by 
producing  it. 

"  Glory  to  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman. 

I  handed  it  to  the  elderly  peasant.  "  I  am 
unlettered,"  he  said;  "  are  you  lettered?  ' 

"  I  read." 

"  Good  !  "  he  said.  "  Read  what  is  written  on 
the  ticket." 

I  uttered  the  three  euphonious  syllables  that 
make  the  name — the  musical,  the  romantic 

184 


My  Slav   Friends 

name — of  the  capital  of  the  kingdom  of  Poland, 
Varshava — put  the  stress  on  the  second  syllable, 
which  rhymes  with  the  Persian  shah,  and  you  will 
pronounce  the  name  as  well  as  any  Pole. 

"  Varshava." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  Varshava/'  said  the 
young  man  triumphantly. 

"  Tak,"  said  the  old  woman,  by  which  she 
meant  "just  so." 

"  Of  course/'  said  the  elderly  peasant. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  finally  arrive  in  Varshava/' 
I  admitted;  "  but  I'm  not  going  there  straight." 

"  Then  where  are  you  going?  '  persisted  the 
young  man;  "  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at." 

"  I  told  you  I  don't  know;  when  I'm  tired  I 
shall  get  out  of  the  train." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  murmured  the  old  woman. 

"  And  what's  your  business?  "  said  the  young 
man. 

"  I'm  a  writer." 

"  And  what  do  you  write?  "  he  asked. 

"  Books." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  murmured  the  old  woman  and 
sighed  deeply. 

It  was  my  turn  to  catechise.  In  England  one 
spends  time  and  ingenuity  in  trying  to  find  out 
the  status  of  casual  acquaintances.  One  may 
know  people  for  years  without  discovering  how 
they  gain  their  livelihood,  who  their  relations  are, 
or  what  their  religion  is.  In  Russia,  not  only  in 
third-class  railway-carriages  but  also  in  all  but 

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My  Slav   Friends 

the  most  fashionable  circles,  unhappily  tainted 
by  European  tact,  one  may  ask  point-blank 
questions  without  any  fear  that  they  will  be  con- 
sidered impertinent.  To  abstain  from  doing  so 
betokens  lack  of  interest  and  sympathy. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  Petrograd?  ' 
I  said  to  the  peasant  with  the  long  beard. 

"  Selling  hazel-hens/' 

I  asked  him  how  many  he  had  sold,  and  what 
prices  he  had  got,  my  inquiry  being  dictated  by 
politeness  rather  than  by  curiosity.  And  presently 
I  turned  the  conversation  to  politics,  having 
learnt  in  Petrograd  that  not  a  peasant  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  Russian  empire  was 
not  interested  in  them. 

"  I  went  to  hear  a  debate  in  the  Duma  the  other 
day/'  I  said. 

"  Vot  kak,"  he  said,  in  a  manner  which  con- 
vinced me  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  impressed. 

I  asked  him  who  was  the  member  for  his  con- 
stituency. He  did  not  know.  He  did  not  care. 
He  was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  happy  peasant.  The 
great  lady  of  his  village,  it  appeared,  had  sold  a 
great  tract  of  land  to  the  peasants  at  such  a  cheap 
rate  that  they  were  able  to  pay  her  by  felling  the 
trees  and  selling  them  to  a  timber-merchant. 

"  I  have  all  the  land  I  want/'  said  the  happy 
peasant,  and  thus  explained  his  lack  of  interest  in 
politics. 

I  had  seen  an  aged  moujik  go  into  the  tribune 
of  the  Duma  and  heard  him  cry,  as  he  waved  his 

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My  Slav   Friends 

thin  hands  above  his  grey  head  :  "  The  land  is 
ours  and  we  are  going  to  have  it."  In  that  state- 
ment he  summed  up  his  political  creed.  And  I 
should  be  greatly  surprised  were  I  to  discover 
that  that  aged  man  had  sufficient  land  to  provide 
for  the  needs  of  himself  and  his  family.  My 
friend,  the  happy  peasant,  had  all  the  land  he 
wanted,  and  being,  like  peasants  all  the  world  over, 
an  unconscious  egoist,  failed  to  interest  himself 
in  questions  which  were  agitating  the  minds  of 
others.  What  business  of  his  was  it  that  peasants 
at  the  other  end  of  Russia,  or  peasants  in  the  next 
village,  were  craving  for  more  land?  And  what 
did  it  matter  to  him  whether  liberty  of  the  press, 
liberty  of  person,  liberty  of  union  and  liberty  of 
assembly  were  established  in  Russia  ?  Students 
and  workmen,  and  other  irreligious  persons  in 
cities,  might  desire  such  things;  that  was  their 
concern.  Let  them  have  these  privileges  if  they 
could  get  them;  and  God  be  with  them.  And 
whether  they  got  them,  or  whether  they  did  not, 
the  peasant  with  enough  land  for  himself  and  his 
wife  and  his  children  would  remain  the  happy 
peasant. 

The  train  stopped.  The  old  woman  opened 
her  eyes.  She  commandeered  the  young  man 
with  the  fringe  of  yellow  hair  which,  at  the 
moment,  he  happened  to  be  combing. 

"  Boiling  water/'  she  said;  "for  the  love  of 
God,  boiling  water/'  and  she  shook  a  little  tea 
into  her  kettle  from  a  screw  of  paper. 


My  Slav   Friends 

The  young  man  said  nothing,  took  the  kettle, 
ran  to  the  little  refreshment  room,  and  returned 
with  boiling  water  just  before  the  train  started. 

"  God  be  with  you/'  said  the  old  woman  as  she 
took  the  kettle  from  him,  and  she  poured  a  flaxen 
stream  of  weak  tea  into  her  enamelled  mug.  Then 
she  put  a  lump  of  sugar  in  her  mouth  and  began 
to  drink. 

"Is  tea  wanted?  "  she  asked,  when  she  had 
done,  looking  at  the  young  man  who  had  wisely 
neglected  to  make  tea  for  himself. 

He  nodded. 

"  If  you  please,  drink,  if  you  please/'  said  the 
old  woman,  handing  him  the  mug. 

The  happy  peasant  refused  tea,  so  did  I,  and 
presently  we  both  dozed  off  to  sleep.  When  I 
woke  up  I  found  that  I  was  alone  in  the  carriage, 
and  I  lay  down  at  full  length  on  the  wooden  seat. 
Somebody  came  into  the  compartment,  but  I  did 
not  trouble  to  open  my  eyes  until  I  felt  the  stranger 
touch  my  arm  and  heard  a  voice  requesting  me  to 
be  amiable.  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  rather 
pretty  girl  was  standing  at  my  side. 

"  Please  be  amiable/'  she  said;  "  I  cannot  get 
up  the  window  in  my  compartment,  and  it  is 
getting  cold.  It  is  near  sunset.  Please  be  so 
amiable  as  to  help  me/' 

I  got  up  and  followed  her  along  the  corridor. 
There  was  nobody  in  her  compartment.  I  hoped 
that  my  strength  would  be  equal  to  making  the 
obstinate  window  yield,  and  never  have  I  found  a 

188 


My  Slav  Friends 

railway-carriage  window  that  shut  so  easily  as 
that  window  of  the  third-class  carriage  in  the 
train  from  Petrograd  to  Varshava.  Realizing 
what  was  required  of  me,  and  pleased  at  the  in- 
genuity of  the  lonely  girl,  I  sat  down  in  the  place 
opposite  her  and  began  to  make  conversation. 
Her  parents,  I  learnt,  lived  in  the  heart  of  the 
forest,  of  which  her  father  was  the  guardian.  She 
said  she  did  not  love  the  forest  and  wished  to  be 
always  in  the  town.  She  had  been  a  housemaid 
in  Petrograd,  and  she  was  going  home  because 
her  sister  was  married  and  her  mother  needed 
her;  and  Petrograd,  she  told  me,  was  the  most 
beautiful  place  on  the  earth,  and  nothing  in 
Petrograd  was  more  beautiful  than  the  Zoological 
Garden  at  night,  when  it  was  lit  up  by  thousands 
of  little  lamps,  white  and  yellow  and  blue  and 
pink. 

"  But  this  is  more  beautiful/'  I  said,  indicating 
the  forest  we  were  passing  and  the  sky  stained 
crimson  by  the  sunset. 

"  I  like  the  Zoological  Garden  best/'  said  the 
girl,  and  told  me  that  at  home  she  would  sit  all 
day  long  and  sew,  and  that  there  would  be  nobody 
to  speak  with  except  her  father  and  mother. 

I  told  her  that  I  was  leaving  the  city  because  I 
was  weary  of  it,  and  hoped  that  I  might  spend 
the  last  weeks  of  the  summer  in  a  Polish  forest. 
And  she  laughed,  and  told  me  I  was  mad,  and 
laughed  again  until  I  laughed  too.  She  left  me  at 
a  wayside  station. 

189 


My  Slav  Friends 

I  watched  her  going  up  the  white  road,  radiant 
in  the  sunset,  and  knew  that  in  her  heart  were 
thoughts  of  the  pink  and  yellow  lamps  of  the  Zoo- 
logical Garden.  And  she  disappeared  among  the 
trees  of  the  enchanted  pine  forest,  between  whose 
slender  trunks  were  glimpses  of  the  flaming  sky. 


190 


A   PEASANT   BOY. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  train  glided  into  the  station  of  Pskov. 
The  summer  evening  was  cold  and  I  was  weary, 
so  I  determined  to  get  out  and  spend  the  night 
in  a  town  which  some  of  my  Petrograd  acquaint- 
ances had  warned  me  not  to  visit. 

"  Don't  go  to  a  place  like  that,"  they  had 
said;  "a  dirty,  tumble-down  place  with  pigs 
running  about  in  the  streets.  Go  to  Odessa,  if 
you  want  to  see  a  fine  Russian  city/' 

And  the  description  they  gave  of  that  city 
deprived  me  of  any  wish  I  had  ever  had  to  see  it. 
Odessa,  it  appeared,  was  a  city  of  boulevards, 
magnificent  modern  buildings,  splendid  blocks 
of  flats,  as  fine  as  any  in  Europe,  and  the  service 
of  electric  trams  was  unsurpassed.  They  might 
have  been  describing  Berlin. 

There  are  no  electric  trams  at  Pskov.  Outside 
the  railway-station  I  hired  a  cab,  which  looked 
like  a  broken-down  Paris  fiacre,  and  told  the 
creature  on  the  box  to  drive  me  to  an  hotel 
which  the  guide-book  assured  me  was  excellent. 
A  few  yards  from  the  station  the  creature  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  apparently  from  mere 
caprice,  and  began  to  fumble  in  the  obscure 
pockets  of  the  garments  he  wore  under  his  outer 
covering,  a  long  cloth  robe  like  a  dressing-gown 

191 


My  Slav   Friends 

"What's  the  matter?  "  I  asked. 

"  Nothing/'  he  said,  and  continued  to  fumble. 

"  Drive  on,  little  brother/'  I  said,  after  watching 
his  ineffectual  search  a  long  minute. 

"  No  matches/'  he  said,  and  turned  round  and 
looked  at  me  sleepily.  "  Has  the  Barin  any?  ' 

It  had  occurred  to  him  that  there  are  fines 
for  wicked  cabmen  who  drive  about  the  streets 
at  night  in  cabs  with  unlit  lamps.  I  gave  him 
matches  and  with  difficulty  he  induced  a  greasy 
lamp  to  burn.  Then  we  set  off  again  down  the 
long  road  from  the  station  in  the  country  to  the 
hotel  in  the  town.  When  the  creature  went  to 
sleep,  as  he  occasionally  did,  I  punched  him  from 
behind  and  called  him  by  endearing  names.  He 
resented  neither  cruelty  nor  endearment. 

At  the  hotel  I  found  a  stout  landlady  behind 
the  zakousky-bar,  the  bar  for  appetizing  snacks, 
in  the  restaurant,  a  large  room  with  tables  on 
which  stood  gilt  candelabra.  She  fed  me  with 
a  morsel  of  raw  herring  and  a  pickled  mushroom 
and  sent  me  to  the  room  she  considered  appro- 
priate for  a  person  of  my  condition.  When  the 
servant  who  had  shown  me  to  it  had  gone  away, 
I  unpacked  my  things,  sat  down  for  a  little,  and 
then  began  to  look  about  me. 

The  room  was  a  large  and  dreary  apartment 
with  two  beds.  I  disliked  it  and,  for  no  reason, 
felt  unhappy  in  it.  There  seemed  to  be  some 
sinister  influence  about  the  place.  I  got  up  and 
walked  about,  examining  the  furniture  and  the 
walls,  and  at  every  step  I  became  more  uneasy 

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My  Slav  Friends 

and  more  certain  that  I  should  be  unable  to 
sleep.  I  was  convinced  that  I  was  in  a  haunted 
chamber.  Not  that  I  expected  to  see  a  Grey  Lady 
emerge  from  the  wall.  Rooms  in  Russia  are  not 
infrequently  haunted  by  more  awful  beings  than 
ghosts.  I  peered  behind  a  piece  of  the  dirty 
wall-paper  that  hung  loose  and  flapped  in  the 
draught  from  the  window.  Then  I  put  my 
belongings  in  my  bag  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  I  cannot  stay  in  this  room/'  I  said  to  the 
man  who  came.  "  There  are  klops." 

I  am  aware  that  I  shall  be  asked  what  a  klop 
is.  I  know  my  manners  and  nothing  on  earth 
will  induce  me  to  say.  In  Russia  one  may  talk 
about  klops  without  embarrassment  or  shame. 
They  are  the  subject  of  antique  jests  on  the  stage. 
But  were  I  to  translate  the  familiar  Russian 
word  into  its  English  equivalent,  the  refined 
reader  would  undoubtedly  put  down  this  book, 
refuse  to  read  another  page,  and  denounce  me 
as  a  person  lacking  in  delicacy  of  feeling. 

"  We  have  no  klops/'  said  the  servant. 

u  Look  behind  that  piece  of  torn  paper  on  the 
wall/'  I  said  sternly. 

He  did  as  he  was  bidden.  Then  he  turned  to 
me  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  They  are  not 
living,"  he  said;  "  they  are  dead." 

"  If  there  are  dead  ones,  there  are  doubtless 
living  ones,"  I  said.  "  You  can  take  my  bag 
downstairs." 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  bewildered  way  and 
followed  me  out  of  the  room, 
o  193 


My  Slav  Friends 


11  And  why  aren't  you  staying?'  asked  the 
large  landlady,  when  I  asked  her  how  much  I 
had  to  pay  for  using  her  room  for  half  an  hour. 

"  There  are  klops  in  the  room  you  gave  me," 
I  said. 

She  repeated  the  stereotyped  phrase  of  Russian 
landladies.  "  We  have  no  klops,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  seen  them,"  I  said  impressively, 
looking  her  straight  in  the  eye. 

She  received  my  statement  without  emotion. 
She  did  not  impugn  my  veracity.  She  was 
neither  horrified  at  my  discovery  nor  indignant 
at  my  accusation. 

"  Why  not  take  another  room?  "  she  said. 

I  refused. 

u  Many  counts  and  barons  stay  here,"  she  said, 
with  great  dignity. 

Even  that  appeal  did  not  move  me.  I  paid 
her  and  hurried  out  of  the  hotel,  stared  at  by  a 
group  of  servants  who  were  obviously  under  the 
impression  that  I  was  mad.  It  was  nine  o'clock 
and  I  wandered  down  the  broad  street  in  search 
of  a  lodging.  The  name  of  the  Hotel  de  Palermo 
was  too  exotic,  and  besides,  as  I  passed  it  I  heard 
somebody  within  tinkling  ragtime  on  a  cracked 
piano.  I  was  not  attracted  by  the  placard  on 
which  were  painted  the  words  Londonskaya  Gastin- 
itza  and  also  the  words  Hotel  de  Londres.  Being 
English,  I  felt  the  Parishkaya  Gastinitza,  also 
described  as  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  more  alluring. 

The  Hotel  de  Paris  was  not  an  hotel.  It  was 
one  of  those  lodging-houses,  to  be  found  in  all 

194 


My  Slav  Friends 

Russian  towns,  in  which  one  may  hire  a  room 
but  cannot  dine.  Up  the  steps  I  went  and  into 
the  hall.  A  tall  boy,  who  looked  about  seventeen, 
came  towards  me.  He  wore  a  dilapidated  baize- 
green  blouse  and  frayed  trousers.  He  had  a  mop 
of  curly  black  hair,  laughing  eyes  and  bare  feet. 

"  Hail,"  he  said. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  am  the  lackey/'  he  answered. 

"  I  want  a  nice  room  without  klops,"  I  said. 

"  We  have  no  klops/'  he  replied,  with  a  touch 
of  pride  in  his  voice.  "  If  you  please/'  and  he 
led  me  along  a  bare  passage  to  a  large  room,  which 
contained  two  beds,  a  washstand,  a  table,  and 
six  uncomfortable  chairs  covered  with  dusty 
tapestry. 

"  And  the  Barin  would  like  the  samovarchik, 
the  dear  little  samovar?  "  he  suggested. 

And  when  he  had  gone  to  fetch  it,  a  girl  in  a 
brown  skirt  and  a  loose  print  jacket,  and  without 
shoes  or  stockings,  came  into  the  room  to  put 
sheets  on  the  bed. 

When  she  went  away  the  boy  came  back  with 
the  samovar,  the  cheerful,  lovable  samovar.  He 
put  the  spluttering,  purring  thing  on  the  table 
and  then  fetched  a  little  teapot,  a  glass  and  spoon. 

"  How  do  they  call  you,  little  dove?  "  I  asked, 
as  I  took  a  screw  of  paper  containing  tea  and 
another  containing  sugar  from  my  bag. 

"  They  call  me  Dmitri/'  he  said. 

"  Do  you  belong  here?  ' 

"  I  come  from  the  village,  Barin,"  he  answered. 
195 


My  Slav   Friends 

"  And  what  made  you  come  to  the  town?  ' 

1  There,  in  the  village,  many  mouths,  little 
bread." 

"  And  it  pleases  you,  life  here?  ' 

"  Dreary,  little  to  be  earned,"  he  answered, 
and  filled  the  teapot  for  me  and  set  it  to 
keep  warm  on  the  top  of  the  samovar.  "  Wish 
to  go  to  Petrograd,"  he  continued.  "  There  life 
is  rich,  broad,  and  much  may  be  earned." 

I  dismissed  him,  drank  two  or  three  glasses  of 
golden  tea,  smoked  a  couple  of  slender  cigarettes 
and  glanced  at  the  local  paper,  Pskov  Life.  The 
perusal  of  that  organ  of  public  opinion  gave  me 
a  desire  to  talk  with  its  editor,  and  I  went  out  to 
go  to  his  office. 

"  Darling,"  said  an  ancient  man,  of  whom  I 
asked  the  way;  "go  straight  up  the  street  and 
take  the  first  turning  to  the  left." 

His  voice  was  like  a  benediction.  I  followed 
his  counsel  and  went  half  a  mile  out  of  my  way. 

The  office  of  the  Pskov  Life  was  a  small  flat, 
and,  at  an  hour  when  a  thousand  tempers  are 
being  lost  in  Fleet  Street,  the  editor  found  time 
to  take  me  into  a  parlour  for  a  gossip,  leaving  the 
paper,  that  was  to  tell  the  news  of  the  world  to 
the  citizens  of  Pskov  on  the  morrow,  in  the  care 
of  two  young  men  and  the  printers.  He  was  a 
man  of  forty,  dressed  as  I  was,  except  that  his 
blouse  was  crimson  instead  of  black.  He  wore 
his  thick,  brown  hair  brushed  back  from  his 
forehead,  like  Maxim  Gorky,  whom  he  somewhat 
resembled.  Even  had  I  not  read  his  paper,  his 

196 


My  Slav  Friends 

appearance  would  have  made  me  certain  that 
he  advocated  a  liberal  and  progressive  policy  in 
its  columns.  Nothing  more  appropriate  than 
that  the  editor  of  a  Pskov  newspaper  should 
advance  democratic  principles;  for  in  the  old 
times,  when  the  city  was  the  centre  of  a  flourish- 
ing republic,  which  had  joined  the  Hanseatic 
League,  the  city  council  rivalled  the  prince  in 
authority,  regarded  him  as  the  paid  servant  of 
the  State,  and  turned  him  out  and  chose  another 
ruler  in  his  place  if  he  proved  unsatisfactory. 
The  ancient  glory  of  Pskov  is  gone,  but  it  can  still 
boast  of  sturdy  citizens  whose  attitude  to  the 
Emperors,  who  are  also  Grand  Princes  of  Pskov, 
is  the  same  as  was  that  of  their  forefathers  to 
bygone  rulers  whose  bodies  lie  in  the  white 
cathedral  on  the  cliff  that  rises  from  the  waters 
of  Lake  Peipus.  "  Our  city/'  they  can  say,  "  was 
great,  when  Moscow  was  the  least  of  all  the  cities 
of  Rus;  here  we  flouted  Moscow  when  Yaroslav 
and  Rostov  and  Novgorod  bowed  before  her; 
here  we  withstood  the  pretensions  of  princes 
when  the  Tsaritsa  Sophia,  daughter  of  Byzantine 
emperors,  puffed  up  her  husband's  pride  and 
Moscow  was  enslaved  by  an  autocrat ;  here  was 
the  last  home  of  Liberty  in  the  holy  Russian 
land." 

The  editor  and  I  fell  to  talking  politics.  He 
was  against  the  Government  then — I  am  writing 
of  a  time  before  the  war — and  I  have  not  a  shadow 
of  a  doubt  that  he  is  heart  and  soul  with  the 
Government  now  in  its  determination  to  wage 

197 


My  Slav  Friends 

the  war  until  the  might  of  the  Germans  is  crushed. 
I  have  not  the  advantage  of  reading  the  Pskov 
Life  now,  but  I  should  be  greatly  surprised  if 
my  friend,  the  editor,  has  not  more  than  once, 
in  the  course  of  patriotic  leading  articles,  en- 
couraged his  fellow-citizens  by  reminding  them  of 
the  glorious  victory  gained  by  Alexander  Nevsky, 
saint  and  prince  of  Novgorod — who  can  with- 
stand God  and  Lord  Great  Novgorod? — when 
out  on  the  lake  that  lies  between  Pskov  and 
Dorpat,  between  the  Russian  lands  and  the  German 
lands  of  the  Tsar,  he  defeated  the  proud  Teutonic 
Knights  in  the  Battle  of  the  Ice.  And  because 
I  know  the  editor  to  be  a  good  Russian  and  a 
patriot,  I  am  certain  that  he  published  gleefully 
and  with  sorrow  in  his  heart  the  speeches  made  by 
the  least  extravagant  and  most  capable  members 
of  the  Imperial  Duma,  in  which  they  denounced 
those  evils  of  administration  and  management 
that  impeded  the  due  prosecution  of  the  war  and 
led  to  the  withdrawal  of  General  Sukhomlinov 
from  the  Ministry  of  War  and  of  Mr.  Maklakov 
from  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior. 

And  I  questioned  the  editor  about  some  silly 
schoolboys,  who  had  been  accused  of  dabbling 
in  revolution  and  were  at  the  time  shut  up  in  the 
prison  of  the  city.  He  told  me  a  dreary  story. 
The  prison  was  unhealthy ;  one  boy,  an  Esthonian 
from  the  other  side  of  Lake  Peipus,  was  danger- 
ously ill — "  You  can  have  his  body  if  he  dies/' 
they  had  told  his  mother  when  they  refused  to 
let  her  see  him — and  he  gave  me  the  back  numbers 

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My  Slav  Friends 

of  his  paper  that  dealt  with  the  case,  a  flimsy 
affair  of  accusations  denied  by  the  boys  and 
supported  by  little  better  evidence  than  the  dis- 
covery of  socialistic  tracts  in  lockers  and  drawers 
of  humble  homes. 

"  Thus  it  has  happened,  what  can  one  do?  ' 
said  the  mother  of  one  of  the  prisoners  to  me  the 
next  day.     She  was  a  tired-looking  woman  who 
kept  a  small  shop. 

"  Glory  to  God  !  my  son  was  set  free  two  days 
ago/'  said  another  mother,  and  she  was  so  glad 
that  she  showed  no  resentment  at  the  imprison- 
ment of  an  innocent  boy,  who  had  not  had  the 
opportunity  of  answering  the  charges  brought 
against  him  in  the  court  of  law,  for  several  months 
in  a  wretched  gaol. 

And  a  brother  of  one  of  the  older  lads  told 
me  that  the  boy  had  been  sent  to  Siberia  by 
administrative  order. 

"  You  must  look  forward  to  the  day  when  he 
will  come  back/'  I  said,  not  knowing  what  to 
say. 

"  He  will  never  come  back/'  said  the  young 
man  gloomily. 

This  is  how  they  make  the  revolutionists  of  the 
future  in  the  good  city  of  Pskov. 

At  the  time,  I  wrote  a  long  account  of  those 
boys  in  one  of  the  English  newspapers,  as  I  told 
the  editor  I  should  do.  And  weeks  afterwards 
he  wrote  and  asked  me  for  my  article,  which, 
he  said,  would  be  most  useful  to  him.  That 
touched  me.  It  was  one  of  those  indications, 

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My  Slav  Friends 

which  I  have  often  had  reason  to  remark,  of  the 
character  of  the  friendship  of  the  Russian  people 
for  the  British  nation  before  ever  diplomatists 
talked  of  an  entente,  or  the  common  aim  of  defeat- 
ing the  same  foe  made  Russians  and  Englishmen 
brothers.  To  the  Russians  the  English  are  cham- 
pions of  Liberty,  and  they  hold  that  British  in- 
fluence and  British  example  will  help  and  support 
them  in  the  task  they  have  set  themselves  of 
establishing  political  Liberty  in  their  own  country. 
They  know  that  their  Government  and  its  agents 
are  sensitive  to  foreign  criticism,  and  the  editor 
of  Pskov  was  evidently  aware  that  an  account 
of  the  process  by  which  a  parcel  of  hot-headed 
boys  were  being  transformed  into  embittered 
and  dangerous  malcontents  was  unlikely  to  pass 
unheeded  by  the  officials  who  had  initiated  it. 
Nothing  more  admirable  than  the  tenacity  and 
courage  with  which  the  editors  of  the  provincial 
newspapers  of  Russia  remain  at  their  posts  and 
carry  on  their  important  work.  On  them  rely 
millions  for  information  about  affairs  of  Russia 
and  foreign  countries  and  for  political  guidance. 
The  size  of  Russia  makes  an  universal  circulation 
of  the  newspapers  of  the  two  capitals  impracticable. 
Moscow  looks  disdainfully  at  the  Petrograd  press. 
And  who  in  Odessa  desires  to  read  newspapers 
from  the  Neva  with  the  stale  news  of  two  days 
ago  ?  In  provincial  towns  it  is  the  local  press  that 
is  chiefly  read,  and,  far  away  from  the  capital, 
provincial  Governors  make  the  life  of  editors  a 
burden.  During  the  last  few  years,  when  no 

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My  Slav  Friends 

formal  censorship  existed,  numbers  of  newspapers 
were  squeezed  out  of  existence  by  the  fines  in- 
flicted on  their  editors  by  arbitrary  officials.  An 
article  that  would  pass  muster  in  one  town  would 
be  considered  improper  in  another,  and  the  editor 
of  the  newspaper  who  sanctioned  its  publication 
be  mulcted  in  a  fine,  or,  in  the  event  of  his 
inability  to  pay,  sent  to  prison.  Nothing  easier 
in  the  circumstances  than  to  suppress  a  news- 
paper. The  Governor  who  disliked  the  political 
tendencies  displayed  by  an  editor  had  only  to 
multiply  fines  until  the  capital  of  the  paper  could 
stand  the  strain  no  longer,  and  the  editor  was 
obliged  to  cease  publication  for  want  of  funds. 
I  pay  homage  to  the  men,  be  they  advocates 
of  reaction  or  advocates  of  progress,  who  have 
persisted  in  their  difficult  work  in  spite  of  perse- 
cution. Courage,  brothers !  from  the  bloody 
plains  of  Poland  spring  the  flowers  of  Liberty, 
and  already  their  petals  are  unfolding. 

With  thoughts  of  the  past  in  my  heart,  I  re- 
turned by  the  silent  streets  of  the  city  to  the 
Parishskaya  Gastinitza.  Through  the  glass  pane 
of  the  front  door  I  saw  a  girl,  fast  asleep  in  a  little 
bed.  The  Sleeping  Beauty  was  so  near  me, 
that  I  might  have  awoken  her  with  a  kiss,  like 
the  prince  in  the  fairy  tale,  had  it  not  been  that 
between  her  and  me  was  the  locked  door.  I 
pulled  the  bell  which  clanged  above  her  head. 
She  gave  a  little  start,  opened  her  pale  eyes,  got 
out  of  bed,  fully  dressed  in  the  brown  skirt  and 
print  blouse  which  she  was  wearing  when  she 

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My  Slav   Friends 

made  my  room  ready  for  the  night,  and  let  me  in. 
Then  she  got  into  bed  again.  I  turned  to  look 
at  her  when  I  was  half  way  down  the  corridor 
and  saw  that  she  was  already  sleeping. 

And  the  next  day  I  loitered,  strolling  down 
the  broad  street,  in  which  some  of  the  houses 
had  apple-green  roofs,  to  the  market-place,  where 
brilliant  peasant-women  sold  vegetables  and  fruit 
and  pots  and  pans — one  of  them  wore  a  bright 
blue  petticoat  and  an  orange  bodice.  Men  who 
looked  as  if  they  had  stepped  out  of  the  Bayeux 
tapestry  were  strolling  about.  A  blouse  of  faded 
mulberry-coloured  linen,  worn  with  vieux  rose 
breeches,  appeared  to  be  fashionable  among 
them.  Their  feet  and  the  lower  part  of  their 
legs  were  swathed  in  puttees  of  white  linen, 
crossed  to  the  knee  with  the  leathern  thongs  of 
their  bark  shoes  or  leather  sandals.  And  I 
visited  the  celebrated  linen-draper.  He  did  not, 
as  I  had  been  led  to  believe,  sell  curiosities  as 
well  as  haberdashery.  He  was  a  connoisseur, 
and  not  a  dealer,  in  antiquities,  and  he  invited 
me  to  see  his  collection.  We  left  the  shop,  where 
ladies  of  Pskov  were  buying  ribbons  and  laces, 
and  went  upstairs  to  the  museum  in  which  the 
linen-draper  and  his  family  live.  There  were 
three  parlours,  in  one  of  which  a  table  was  set 
for  dinner,  and  on  their  walls  were  ranged  shelves 
filled  with  a  thousand  things  that  made  one  break 
one  commandment  and  desire  to  break  another. 
There  were  carvings  and  swords  and  ancient 
icons  and  coins  and  sealed  earthen  jars  con- 

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My  Slav   Friends 

taining  coins,  money  put  by  for  a  rainy  day 
centuries  ago,  seen  through  a  hole  in  the  side  of 
the  vase.  And  the  linen-draper  was  as  reluctant 
to  unseal  the  jars  and  to  examine  the  coins  as  is 
an  amateur  of  books  to  cut  the  leaves  of  a  first 
edition  and  read  the  contents.  And  by  the  side 
of  icons  of  the  Virgin,  amidst  the  treasure-trove 
of  the  countryside,  were  curiosities  from  a  foreign 
land,  pictures  of  Louis  Wain  cats.  The  linen- 
draper  was  an  elderly  man,  thin  and  very  grave, 
but  his  eyes  shone  when  he  pointed  out  this 
treasure  and  that. 

Pskov  is  cut  into  three  parts  by  two  rivers, 
the  Pskova  and  the  Vilika.  On  the  high  ground 
between  them,  at  the  point  where  they  unite 
and  form  a  mighty  stream  that  is  an  arm  of  Lake 
Peipus,  is  the  Kremlin,  surrounded  by  a  wall, 
built  in  days  of  grandeur  when  St.  Alexander 
Nevsky's  son  had  been  but  three  years  prince 
of  Moscow,  an  upstart  place  that  was  then  of  no 
account  to  the  Republic.  Within  the  walls  is 
the  high  cathedral  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  like  an 
oblong  box,  painted  white  and  stood  on  end, 
with  five  grey  domes,  the  shape  of  onions,  set 
on  the  top,  a  big  one  in  the  middle  and  a  smaller 
one  at  each  angle.  And  the  big  dome  and  two 
of  the  small  ones  are  perched  on  turrets  pierced 
by  windows  that  give  light  to  the  interior.  The 
cathedral  is  not  ancient — it  was  built  in  the  time 
of  Peter  the  Great — but  it  stands  on  ground 
where  prayer  has  been  accustomed  to  be  made 
from  the  first  years  of  the  sanctification  of  the 

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My  Slav  Friends 

Russian  land.  They  say  that  St.  Olga,  the  first 
Christian  princess  of  Russia,  built  the  first  of  the 
churches  that  stood  where  the  present  cathedral 
stands,  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  from  which  I 
looked  down  to  the  waters  where  fishermen's 
boats  were  sailing  to  the  open  reaches  of  the 
lake,  treacherous  as  the  lake  of  Galilee. 

In  Russia  it  is  not  possible  to  judge  of  the 
interior  of  a  church  by  its  exterior.  I  have  been 
into  churches  that  were  beautiful  without,  and 
within  were  divided  into  two  storeys,  forming 
two  churches,  great  rooms  with  flat  ceilings  and 
garish  decorations.  Neither  past  experience  nor 
the  architectural  poverty  of  the  exterior  pre- 
pared me  for  the  glorious  interior  of  the  cathedral 
in  the  Kremlin  of  Pskov.  Four  gigantic  pillars 
supported  the  arches  of  the  high  roof,  whose  blue 
cupolas  were  powdered  with  stars,  and  the  har- 
monious colouring  of  the  screen  between  the 
sanctuary  and  the  nave,  rich  with  ancient  icons, 
reminded  me  of  the  beautiful  work  of  the  late 
Mr.  Bodley.  An  old  woman  was  praying  by  the 
silver  tomb  of  St.  Gabriel,  a  prince  of  the  Re- 
public in  the  twelfth  century.  From  the  roof 
hung  a  sword,  suspended  in  mid-air  at  the  end 
of  a  cord;  it  was  wielded  once  by  St.  Dovmont, 
a  Lithuanian  who  was  christened  on  that  spot 
with  his  family  in  1266  and  afterwards  reigned 
in  Pskov.  His  successors,  whose  coffins  lie  in 
the  crypt  of  the  cathedral,  were  all  invested  with 
that  sword  when  they  were  crowned  in  the  cathe- 
dral. For  more  than  four  hundred  years  it  has 

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My  Slav  Friends 

rusted  in  its  sheath  and  is  now  a  relic  of  past 
magnificence  and  bygone  liberty,  like  the  title 
of  Grand  Prince  of  Pskov  which  the  passport  in 
my  pocket  attributed  to  the  Tsar  along  with  a 
list  of  other  titles  :  Grand  Prince  of  Suzdal,  Grand 
Prince  of  Novgorod,  Grand  Prince  of  Vladimir, 
Polish  Tsar,  and  many  others,  that  might  serve 
for  an  epitome  of  the  history  of  the  unification 
of  Russia. 

The  old  woman  ended  her  orisons  by  the  silver 
tomb  of  St.  Gabriel  and  fell  to  kissing  icons,  of 
which  there  will  be  much  to  say  hereafter.  And 
as  for  me,  I  went  to  a  tavern  and  partook  of 
borsh.  You  know  what  borsh  is  ?  You  have 
supped  delicately  on  it  in  fashionable  London 
restaurants  ?  Permit  me :  they  deceived  you, 
they  gave  you  nothing  more  than  a  cup  of  feeble 
borshok,  and  that  is  a  very  different  matter. 
To  begin  with,  borsh  is  not  a  dish  to  be  eaten 
in  the  presence  of  elegant  persons.  Just  as  it  is 
best  to  eat  ripe  mangos  while  sitting  in  a  bath, 
so  it  is  best  to  consume  borsh  in  a  low  tavern, 
where  table  manners  are  of  no  account,  or,  if 
that  be  impossible,  in  solitude.  This  will  be 
readily  understood  when  it  is  pointed  out  that 
in  a  bowl  of  borsh,  a  succulent  and  bright  red 
soup,  lie  concealed  (i)  a  thick  slice  of  beef  or 
mutton,  (2)  a  quantity  of  shredded  beetroot, 
(3)  a  substantial  piece  of  ham,  (4)  one  or  two 
bay-leaves,  (5)  a  couple  of  sausages ;  nor  does  this 
list  embrace  the  names  of  all  the  substances 
included  in  a  portion  of  borsh,  for  there  are 

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My  Slav   Friends 

brought  with  it  in  separate  dishes,  so  that  the 
consumer  may  add  the  amounts  experience  and 
taste  dictate,  (6)  thick,  sour  cream,  (7)  baked 
buckwheat,  and  possibly,  though  this  is  not 
essential,  (8)  little  pies  of  the  most  substantial 
sort  of  paste,  stuffed  with  meat  or  cabbage  or 
fish  or  eggs,  which,  for  the  sake  of  clarity,  it 
must  be  added,  are  on  no  account  to  be  added  to 
the  collection  of  substances  already  in  the  soup, 
but  are  intended  to  be  eaten  instead  of  bread. 
It  is  not  a  dish  to  dally  with  gracefully,  and  it 
promotes  neither  flirtation  nor  an  epigrammatic 
style  of  conversation.  It  is  a  serious,  an  essen- 
tially manly,  dish,  due  to  the  virile  genius  of  the 
Little  Russians,  and  for  its  consumption  a  spoon, 
a  knife  and  a  fork  are  required,  and  a  napkin, 
sufficiently  large  to  cover  the  upper  portion  of 
the  body,  is  considered  desirable  by  the  fastidious. 
As  a  middle-class  nobleman  once  remarked  to 
me,  when  he  found  me  dining  before  going 
to  the  opera  and  noticed  that  I  had  neglected  to 
insert  a  corner  of  my  napkin  between  my  neck 
and  my  collar  :  "  What  a  dreadful  thing  if  you 
spoil  the  front  of  that  perfectly  clean  shirt  before 
starting  !  ' 

After  the  delicious  lassitude  that  compensates 
one  for  the  energy  required  to  eat  a  portion  of 
borsh  had  somewhat  abated,  I  went  across  the 
Pskova  by  a  bridge  laid  on  boats,  easy  to  move 
when  winter  comes  and  the  river  freezes.  By 
the  pathway  along  the  grassy  bank  I  went  and 
came  to  a  place  where  women  were  bathing. 

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My  Slav  Friends 

They  went  into  the  water  wrapt  in  white  sheets 
from  head  to  foot.  They  swam,  they  floated 
on  their  backs,  and,  by  some  process  which  I 
could  not  understand,  they  and  their  sheets  were 
never  parted  and  they  issued  modestly  from  the 
water  in  the  clinging  draperies  which  made  them 
look  like  the  women  painted  on  Greek  vases.  At 
a  suitable  distance  from  the  bathing-place  of  the 
women,  naked  youths  stood  by  the  river's  bank. 
The  white  bodies  of  their  comrades  gleamed  in 
the  shining  water.  Some  stood  in  the  shallows, 
sunning  themselves  and  chaffing  those  that  were 
on  the  bank.  Others  swam  across  the  blue  river 
to  the  other  side,  above  which  rise  the  crumbling 
walls  built  to  defend  the  Republic  from  Teutonic 
Knights,  and  back  they  swam  and  came  from  the 
water  laughing. 

Through  the  fields  I  went  to  a  monastery, 
surrounded  with  a  white  wall,  capped  with  apple 
green,  and  listened  for  a  space  to  the  placid 
hymns  of  a  few  singers  and  bearded  monks,  who 
stood  in  the  midst  of  their  church  to  sing  vespers 
as  their  predecessors  had  done  in  the  glorious 
days  of  the  city.  And  thinking,  as  I  listened  to 
the  pale  music,  of  the  laughter  by  the  river's 
brink,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  passed  without  a  pause 
from  the  reading  of  the  Charmides  to  a  sermon 
written  by  Chrysostom. 

Back  in  the  lodging-house  that  calls  itself  the 
H6tel  de  Paris,  I  saw  through  the  kitchen  door 
Dmitri  putting  lumps  of  red-hot  charcoal  from 
the  stove  into  a  samovar. 

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My  Slav  Friends 


"  You  can  heat  a  samovar  for  me,"  I  called. 

"  This  hour/'  he  answered,  putting  a  great 
chimney  on  the  top  of  the  samovar  to  make  the 
fire  within  draw. 

"  Dmitri/'  I  said,  when  he  came  with  the  tea- 
things;  "would  you  like  to  go  to  a  circus  this 
evening?  ' 

Dmitri  frowned.  There  was,  it  appeared,  far 
too  much  work  to  do  to  permit  him  to  accept  the 
invitation. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  asked  your  master  nicely,  he 
might  let  you  come,"  I  suggested;  "  at  any  rate 
I'll  try." 

Dmitri  showed  no  enthusiasm. 

"  Maybe  you  wouldn't  care  to  go,  even  if  you 
could,"  I  said. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  go,"  he  said 
gloomily,  "  but  there  is  much  work  to  be  done." 

u  It's  an  Italian  circus,"  I  said. 

"  Dmitri's  gloom  disappeared  in  an  instant 
and  his  eyes  sparkled.  "  The  Italian  circus  in 
the  tent  on  the  way  to  the  station  !  "  he  cried. 
"  I  thought  the  Barin  wanted  me  to  go  to  church 
with  him,"  and  with  that  statement  he  humbled 
me  to  the  dust  by  making  it  clear  that  I  had 
pronounced  a  word  so  badly  as  to  turn  it  into 
another  word  with  a  somewhat  similar  sound  and 
a  totally  different  meaning.  All  the  same  I  was 
glad  that  a  very  bad  mistake  had  given  me  a 
glimpse  of  the  psychology  of  a  Russian  boy  and 
shown  me  that  it  bore  a  close  resemblance  to 
that  of  many  an  English  boy. 

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My  Slav  Friends 

"  I'm  certain  I  can  get  through  my  work  in 
plenty  of  time  to  go,"  continued  Dmitri.  "  I 
shall  be  for  ever  grateful  to  the  Barin  if  he  will 
ask  the  master  to  let  me  go."  Then  his  face 
clouded.  "  Perhaps  he'll  refuse,"  he  said.  "  The 
Barin  must  speak  to  him  very  seriously." 

Permission  for  the  outing  was  somewhat  grudg- 
ingly given  by  the  landlord,  and  the  delighted 
Dmitri  and  I  set  off  to  the  circus.  The  boy 
had  made  himself  smart,  that  is  to  say  he  had 
washed  his  face  and  put  on  boots. 

"  Trousers  frightfully  old,"  he  said  ruefully, 
"  but  Marsha  "  —she  was  the  chambermaid — "  has 
mended  the  hole  in  my  blouse." 

As  we  took  grand  seats  in  the  first  row,  we 
were  given  about  twenty-four  tickets,  like  omnibus 
tickets  in  a  long  strip,  so  that  we  had  twenty-four 
chances  of  winning  magnificent  prizes  in  the 
lottery  with  which  the  spectacle  was  announced 
to  end.  Dmitri  loved  being  in  the  front  row, 
especially  as  some  of  his  friends  were  in  the  two- 
penny-halfpenny gallery  and  had  therefore  only 
one  chance  each  of  winning  a  prize.  There  were 
no  wild  animals  and  none  of  the  performers  did 
anything  very  dangerous,  so  the  entertainment 
was  not  disagreeable.  Indeed,  the  cinemato- 
graph made  me  almost  sentimental,  for  it  showed 
a  British  burglar  being  chased  by  two  British 
policemen.  Late  in  the  evening  the  wife  of  the 
manager  (in  a  plain  riding-habit)  rode  round  the 
arena  on  a  fine  horse,  with  an  air  that  made  one 
feel  that  it  was  exceedingly  amiable  of  her  to 
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My  Slav  Friends 

have  consented  to  do  so.  And  then  came  the 
grand  lottery,  conducted  by  two  clowns.  Dmitri 
became  flushed  with  excitement,  his  lips  were 
parted,  and  his  eyes  anxiously  followed  the 
clowns,  who  were  moving  about  in  the  arena, 
cracking  jokes,  and  every  few  moments  shouting 
out  a  winning  number,  drawn  from  a  hat,  and 
running  off  to  give  the  prize  to  the  winners.  A 
dozen  people  had  been  made  happy,  including 
a  man  in  the  gallery,  and  Dmitri,  with  twelve 
tickets,  grew  more  anxious  every  moment.  A 
youthful  officer,  next  him,  seemed  almost  as 
anxious,  though  he  was  obviously  trying  to  appear 
indifferent.  The  poor  boy  won  a  large  glass 
sugar-basin  and  so  did  I.  Dmitri's  colour  had 
gone  and  his  face  was  almost  green  with  appre- 
hension when  he  found  favourites  of  fortune  on 
either  side  of  him  and  saw,  moreover,  that  the 
stock  of  prizes  on  the  little  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  arena  was  almost  exhausted.  I  began  to 
share  his  fears  and  was  relieved  when  the  clown 
popped  a  lady's  purse  into  his  hands.  He  blushed 
crimson  and  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  look  of 
the  utmost  contentment  on  his  face.  I  gener- 
ously gave  him  my  glass  sugar-basin,  and  on  the 
way  home  I  learnt  that  the  purse  would  be 
presented  to  a  young  person  of  the  name  of 
Avdotia  on  the  following  Sunday. 

Next  morning  I  left  Pskov.  When  I  was  ready 
to  start,  Dmitri  ran  into  my  room,  threw  himself 
on  his  knees,  caught  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  me  with  you,  Barm,"  he 

210 


My  Slav  Friends 

said.  "  There  in  Petrograd  is  broad,  rich  life. 
It  is  dreary  here.  I  will  be  the  Barin's  lacquey. 
I  will  work  hard/' 

I  told  him  that  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to 
employ  him,  and,  as  I  spoke,  I  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Zdyes  skuchno,  it's  dreary  here,"  he  said,  as 
I  left  him. 


211 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  the  cathedral  of  Pskov  I  saw  an  old  woman 
kissing  icons.  She  kissed  the  little  Christ,  a  babe 
in  arms  who  had  kicked  off  one  of  his  little  sandals. 
She  kissed  the  Holy  Virgin.  She  kissed  Apostle 
Andrew  the  First  Called.  She  kissed  two  Fathers 
of  the  Church.  She  kissed  the  Blissful  Seraphim, 
who  spoke  to  no  man  for  thirty  years.  She 
kissed  St.  Olga,  who,  they  say,  tied  burning 
matches  to  the  tails  of  sparrows,  that  they  might 
fly  away  and  set  fire  to  the  houses  of  her  enemies. 
She  kissed  the  Blissful  Yevrosinia,  whose  floating 
shrine  not  long  ago  ascended  the  broad  Dnieper 
from  Kiev  to  her  ancient  home  Polotsk,  in  a 
triumph  that  a  queen  might  envy.  She  kissed 
the  Blissful  Anna  of  Kashin,  whom  Peter  the 
Great  drove  from  the  fellowship  of  the  saints 
and  Nicholas  II  rehabilitated.  And  she  kissed 
the  Blissful  Irene,  Empress  and  Defender  of  the 
Holy  Images,  "  whose  ambition  and  desire  of 
rule — in  the  words  of  a  formulary  of  the  Church 
of  England — was  insatiable,  whose  treason,  con- 
tinually studied  and  wrought,  was  most  abomin- 
able, whose  wicked  and  unnatural  cruelty  passed 
Medea  and  Progne,  whose  detestable  parricides 
have  ministered  matter  to  poets  to  write  their 
horrible  tragedies/' 

212 


A   LITTLE   RUSSIAN. 


My  Slav  Friends 

I  could  not  have  brought  myself  to  kiss  the 
Empress  Irene,  for,  in  my  opinion — I  write  under 
correction — her  theological  orthodoxy  cannot  con- 
done her  habit  of  cutting  out  the  tongues  of  her 
relatives  and  of  putting  out  their  eyes.  Never- 
theless, I  watched  the  proceedings  of  the  old 
woman  with  sympathy.  She  was,  I  knew,  from 
a  sober  English  standpoint,  an  idolatress,  but 
having  a  tendency  to  idolatry  myself,  I  felt  that 
a  spiritual  kinship  existed  between  her  and  me. 
She  loved  her  images,  as  I  loved  mine.  She 
loved  some  better  than  others;  for  I  remarked 
that  she  kissed  some  of  them  coldly,  and  others 
she  kissed  lingeringly  or  kissed  twice  and  thrice. 
And,  like  her,  I  had  my  favourite  images.  I 
loved  the  Mother  of  God  of  the  Gateway  of  Vilna 
better  than  the  Mother  of  God  of  Czenstochowa, 
who  is  the  Queen  of  Poland,  the  black  image  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Chartres  better  than  the  smiling 
figure  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lourdes.  And  neither 
I  nor  the  old  woman  cared  a  straw  that  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  and  all  bishops,  parsons, 
vicars  and  curates  of  England  held  our  images 
to  be  "  great  puppets  and  mawmets  for  old  fools 
in  dotage  and  wicked  idolatry/'  as  is  stated  in 
the  aforementioned  Homily  against  Peril  of 
Idolatry,  the  finest  piece  of  sustained  invective 
in  the  language,  which  all  these  learned  men  have 
solemnly  averred,  or  ever  they  were  admitted  to 
their  offices,  doth  contain  a  godly  and  wholesome 
Doctrine  and  necessary  for  these  times.  And  yet 
as  I  looked  at  that  sweet  idolatress,  and  saw  her 

213 


My   Slav   Friends 

face  that  was  wrinkled  with  care,  and  heard  her 
sigh  as  she  kissed  the  little  Christ,  I  felt  persuaded 
that  even  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  ordered  all  those 
violent  things  to  be  read  in  the  churches,  would 
have  been  softened  had  she  seen  her,  and  would, 
at  least,  have  abstained  from  telling  her  that  her 
images  were  vanities,  lies,  deceits,  uncleanliness, 
filthiness,  dung,  mischief  and  abomination  before 
the  Lord. 

And  I  thought  of  that  old  woman  and  multitudes 
of  men  and  women,  whom  I  have  seen  cherishing 
their  images  in  the  holy  Russian  land,  one  night 
when  I  passed  a  stucco  church  of  Primitive 
Methodists  in  the  dreary  suburb  of  an  English 
town,  and  heard  the  people  within  praising  God 
in  a  hymn  that  is  known  wherever  the  English 
language  is  spoken.  I  stopped  to  listen  to  their 
singing,  and  these  were  the  words  that  floated 
into  the  dismal  night — 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid, 

Art  thou  sore  distrest  ? 
'  Come  to  Me/  saith  One,  '  and  coming, 
Be  at  rest ! ' 

And  as  I  heard  the  holy  song,  I  realized  the 
essential  unity  of  the  singers  and  those  whom 
they  would  count  idolatrous  or,  if  modern  gentle- 
ness makes  them  choose  a  softer  word,  super- 
stitious. On  their  lips  were  the  words  of  a  monk 
of  Greece,  whose  championship  of  the  sacred 
images  a  thousand  years  ago  was  powerful  to 

214 


My  Slav  Friends 

conserve  to  the  old  woman  of  Pskov  the  right  to 
venerate  the  picture  of  her  Saviour  in  tranquillity. 

If  I  find  Him,  if  I  follow, 

What  His  guerdon  here  ? 
'  Many  a  sorrow,  many  a  labour, 
Many  a  tear/ 

sang  those  melodious  Methodists,  and  I  wondered 
if  they  knew  that  the  words  were  written  to  give 
consolation  to  men  and  women  who  were  vilely 
persecuted  and  put  to  death  by  Christian  emperors 
for  their  obstinate  attachment  to  images.  Those 
Emperors  of  Byzantium,  Leo  the  Isaurian,  Leo 
the  Armenian,  their  courtiers  and  the  bishops 
who  flattered  them  by  subservience,  were  not 
like  the  Reformers  and  Puritans  of  England  and 
of  Scotland,  who  overthrew  and  brake  in  pieces 
the  images  that  the  English  and  the  Scotch  used 
to  love.  The  reasons  that  dictated  the  conduct 
of  the  iconoclasts  of  Constantinople  were  more 
subtle  than  those  that  influenced  the  iconoclasts 
of  Great  Britain.  They  were  not  primarily 
concerned  with  the  literal  interpretation  of  a 
law  given  to  the  children  of  Israel.  They  sought 
to  drive  from  men's  minds  the  belief  that  God 
became  man,  by  depriving  them  of  the  sight  of 
images  of  Him  in  the  arms  of  Mary  or  on  the 
cross,  holding  Him  to  be  a  spirit  with  the  semblance 
and  not  the  reality  of  a  human  body.  And  be- 
cause St.  Theodore  of  the  Studium,  who  wrote 
the  Methodists'  hymn,  with  many  learned  men 

215 


My  Slav  Friends 

and  a  multitude  of  simple  people,  believed  that 
mankind  would  be  deprived  of  its  greatest  con- 
solation, were  imperial  hands  to  filch  from  its 
heart  the  belief  that  the  Almighty  had  known 
human  sorrow  and  human  care,  they  defended 
the  images  that  advertised  His  condescension. 

If  I  still  hold  closely  to  Him, 

What  hath  He  at  last? 
'  Sorrow  vanquished,  labour  ended, 
Jordan  past.' 

They  sang  the  words  in  the  ugly  stucco  church 
to  give  themselves  courage  to  bear  the  petty 
trials  and  contradictions  they  would  encounter 
before  they  met  together  on  the  next  Sabbath 
evening.  And  I  asked  myself  if  any  of  them 
knew  that  they  were  an  inspiration  to  men  and 
women  who  suffered  tortures,  wandered  in  savage 
exile,  yielded  up  their  lives  at  the  hands  of  exe- 
cutioners, for  the  sake  of  the  images  before  which 
they  were  wont  to  bow  themselves.  It  was  un- 
likely that  they  should  know ;  but  had  they  done 
so,  they  would  have  understood  that  in  their 
hearts  were  the  same  thoughts  that  filled  the 
hearts  of  strange  monks,  who  burnt  incense  before 
pictures  in  the  churches  of  the  Holy  Wisdom  at 
Constantinople  and  Kiev  and  Novgorod,  the 
same  longings  that  animate  unlettered  Russian 
peasants  or,  for  that  matter,  Irish  soldiers  and 
French  poilus,  who  burn  candles  before  effigies. 
And  I  felt  sorry  that  they  did  not  know,  and 

216 


My  Slav  Friends 

thought  of  the  old  woman,  who  kissed  the  little 
Christ  in  the  cathedral,  walking  hand  in  hand  with 
a  Methodist  sister  in  the  celestial  garden. 

In  Russia  they  keep  once  a  year  a  feast  they 
call  the  Feast  of  Orthodoxy  to  commemorate 
the  overthrow  of  the  iconoclasts  and  the  triumph 
of  the  vindicators  of  the  holy  images.  There  is 
no  such  feast  in  the  West ;  for  the  heresy  that  lay 
at  the  root  of  iconoclasm  did  not  affect  the  Latins, 
who  had  therefore  not  the  same  incentive  to  fill 
their  lands  with  icons  as  had  the  Greeks,  who 
taught  the  faith  to  the  Russians.  If  a  foreigner 
wants  to  know  how  it  is  that  there  is  an  icon  in 
the  bedroom  of  his  hotel  in  Moscow  and  nothing 
more  edifying  than  a  ceiling  with  Venus  and  a 
train  of  cupids  in  the  room  they  gave  him  in  Rome, 
he  must  read  the  tedious  history  of  the  icono- 
clastic controversy.  Had  Leo  the  Isaurian  not 
hacked  down  crucifixes  in  Constantinople,  there 
would  hardly  be  a  wreath  of  electric  lights  on 
festivals  around  the  picture  of  Nicholas  the 
Wonder-worker  in  the  booking-office  of  the  Var- 
shava  station  of  Petrograd.  Everywhere  in  Russia, 
icons ;  but  there  are  icons  that  are  more  beloved 
than  others  and  more  reverenced. 

Anna  Ivanovna,  who  took  me  to  the  chapel 
in  the  house  of  Peter  the  Great,  where  the  im- 
perial icon  of  the  Sorrowful  Face  of  Christ 
is  kept,  told  me  that  there  was  another  icon  in 
Petrograd  which  she  loved  still  more. 

"It  is  very  odd/'  she  said;  "before  that  icon 
217 


My   Slav  Friends 

I  can  pray  better  than  anywhere  else,  and  yet, 
if  you  asked  me  the  reason,  I  could  not  tell  you. 
I  do  not  know.  They  call  that  icon  our  Lady  of 
the  Poor/' 

I  asked  her  how  it  came  by  the  name. 

"  There  used  to  be  an  alms-box  affixed  to  the 
wall  of  the  Alexander  Nevsky  monastery/'  she 
said,  "  and  above  it  was  a  picture  of  the  Mother 
of  God.  One  day  there  was  a  terrible  thunder- 
storm. The  alms-box  was  struck  by  lightning 
and  the  money  in  it  thrown  on  the  ground,  except 
seven  of  the  tiniest  coins  we  have,  so  tiny  that  I 
do  not  expect  you  have  ever  seen  them,  for  it  is 
only  the  very  poorest  people  who  use  them. 
The  seven  tiny  coins  had  lodged  in  the  silver  halo 
round  the  head  of  the  Virgin  of  the  picture;  so 
the  people  said  :  '  This  is  the  Mother  of  God  who 
loves  the  poor/  and  they  began  to  come  in  great 
numbers  to  pray  before  that  picture,  and  they 
begged  the  priests  to  say  prayers  for  them  at 
that  place.  People  came  from  all  parts  of  the 
city,  and  the  clergy  had  no  rest.  They  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  from  the  payments  given 
them  for  saying  prayers.  And  at  last  they  were 
obliged  to  build  a  church  for  the  icon,  and  there 
are  always  people  there  praying.  There  is  no 
place  in  Petrograd  where  the  people  seem  to  pray 
so  earnestly,  and  when  I  go  there  I  cannot  help 
praying  well.  It  is  a  pity  it  is  so  far  from  my 
home/' 

"  Now  if   I  had  heard  a  woman  talking  such 
218 


My  Slav  Friends 

nonsense/'  said  a  capable  Englishwoman  to  whom 
I  repeated  Anna  Ivanovna's  words,  '  I  should 
have  just  taken  her  by  the  shoulders  and  told 
her  to  pull  herself  together.  Such  sentimentality 
is  absolutely  intolerable  and  ought  to  be  dealt 
with." 

Of  course  that  able  woman  would  have  done 
nothing  of  the  kind,  had  she  actually  met  Anna 
Ivanovna ;  for  Anna  has  a  little  air  of  unconscious 
dignity  that  would  defend  her  from  amiable 
impertinence.  It  is  restful  to  be  with  her.  And 
besides,  a  woman  with  grown-up  children  cannot 
be  spoken  to  as  though  she  were  a  chit  of  a  girl. 
But  were  she  asked  to  explain  the  power  that 
our  Lady  of  the  Poor  exercises  over  her,  she 
would  be  at  a  loss  to  do  so. 

One  summer  morning  Nijinski  and  I  went  to 
South  Kensington,  because  he  wished  to  look  at 
Indian  pictures  and  carvings  in  one  of  the  museums 
in  order  to  see  the  poses  he  must  adopt  in  Le  Dieu 
Bleu.  And  on  the  way  home  we  went  into  the 
Oratory,  and  when  we  came  out,  that  miraculous 
Polish  boy,  the  radiant  slave  of  the  night  before 
in  Armide's  bower,  "  qui  s'ennuye  en  1'air,"  as  a 
critic  said  of  him,  was  silent. 

"  That  church  does  not  please  me,"  he  said 
suddenly,  as  we  were  whirled  through  a  lilac- 
scented  square. 

"Why?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  does  not  make  one  feel  one  wants  to  pray/' 
he  said. 

219 


My  Slav  Friends 

And  in  the  dancer's  reflection,  balancing  Anna 
Ivanovna's,  lies  the  definition  of  the  charm  that 
certain  shrines  and  certain  pictures  and  statues 
work  in  the  souls  of  men.  In  those  churches, 
before  those  effigies,  they  find  they  possess  a 
greater  ability  to  abstract  their  minds  from  earthly 
things  and  to  speak  with  heaven.  That  buildings 
and  painted  boards  and  stocks  and  stones  possess 
this  charm,  an  infidel,  who  has  seen  Christians  at 
prayer  in  the  places  of  pilgrimage  scattered  over 
Christendom  or  in  the  shrines  whose  fame  has  hardly 
spread  beyond  the  walls  of  the  cities  in  which  they 
are  beloved,  will  undoubtedly  admit.  But  in  what 
lies  the  charm  whose  existence  cannot  be  denied  ? 
Anna  Ivanovna,  who  is  an  educated  woman,  would 
laugh,  if  anybody  accused  her  of  thinking  that 
there  is  any  intrinsic  merit  or  secret  power  in  the 
piece  of  board,  unskilfully  smeared  with  paint, 
which  they  call  our  Lady  of  the  Poor.  What  is 
its  attraction  for  her  ?  Balzac  speaks  somewhere 
of  a  forlorn  village  church,  with  a  paltry  curtain 
of  red  cotton  over  the  east  window  and  crude 
oleographs  on  the  altars,  and  transforms  the  picture 
in  a  phrase,  "  parfumee  de  prieres  champ£tres." 
And  the  phrase,  I  think,  gives  a  clue  to  the  secret 
of  the  magic  of  some  churches  and  of  some  pic- 
tures. In  those  churches,  kneeling  before  those 
pictures,  the  worshippers  are,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, influenced  by  an  atmosphere  charged 
with  sighs  and  prayers,  with  aspirations  to  earthly 
happiness,  with  conflicts  waged  with  spiritual  foes, 

220 


My  Slav  Friends 

with  petitions  for  daily  bread,  with  regrets  and 
bitterness,  with  heroic  vows,  with  petty  com- 
plaints, with  acts  of  difficult  renunciation,  with 
combats  between  flesh  and  spirit,  with  flights 
from  earth  to  the  gates  of  Paradise,  with  desires 
for  perfection,  with  all  those  parti-coloured  emo- 
tions that  rack  and  console  the  hearts  of  men.  "  A 
crucifix,  beautiful ;  a  cross,  more  beautiful ;  and 
most  beautiful,  nothing ;"  said  Juan  de  la  Cruz. 
There  is  the  voice  of  a  saint  and  a  mystic  at  the 
summit  of  the  scale  of  Christian  perfection.  But 
most  Russians,  like  most  of  the  Carmelite's  fellow- 
countrymen,  are  not  saints,  but  imperfect  men 
and  women,  who  know  from  experience,  if  they 
cannot  account  for  it,  the  beneficent  influence 
exercised  upon  them  by  the  effigies  that  the 
perfect  do  not  need. 

I  hold  no  brief  to  defend  the  religion  of  the 
Russians.  I  have  seen  its  imperfection  as  well 
as  its  beauty.  But  it  is  impossible  to  find  oneself, 
year  after  year,  in  contact  with  manifestations  of 
religious  feeling  of  a  character  that  is  foreign  to 
English  sentiment,  without  seeking  to  find  some 
explanation  of  these  phenomena.  And  in  a  book 
about  Russia,  whose  pages  must  perforce  be 
strewn  with  allusions  to  the  shrines  and  sacred 
pictures  that  adorn  the  remotest  recesses  of  the 
land,  if  it  is  to  give  a  faithful  impression,  it  seemed 
proper  to  attempt  to  offer  some  considerations 
that  may  suggest  an  explanation  of  the  attitude 
of  educated  Russians,  as  well  as  that  of  unin- 

221 


My  Slav  Friends 

structed  peasants,  to  practices  that  are  likely  to 
appear  childish  to  most  Englishmen. 

"  The  Russian  religion  is  sheer  idolatry/'  said 
a  Polish  priest  to  me.  He  was  a  clever  man,  with 
the  air  of  a  young  Cambridge  don,  but  his  sweep- 
ing statement  was  not  untainted  with  prejudice. 
Had  he  known  her,  he  would,  I  am  sure,  have 
owned  that  Anna  Ivanovna,  votaress  of  our  Lady 
of  the  Poor,  is  neither  an  idolatress  nor  a  super- 
stitious woman.  That  there  is  superstition  among 
the  common  people,  we  should  have  agreed. 

Three  years  ago  a  peasant,  living  in  an  isolated 
Siberian  village,  was  clearing  out  some  stones  and 
rubbish  that  had  lain  for  years  on  the  floor  of  the 
cellar  beneath  his  cottage.  And  as  he  worked, 
he  found,  buried  under  a  heap  of  stones,  an  icon 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  little  Jesus.  He  had  lived 
in  the  cottage  for  years,  and  knew  nothing  of  the 
existence  of  the  heavenly  picture.  And  even  if 
it  had  been  in  the  cellar  before  his  time,  who  in 
all  the  orthodox  land  would  do  so  impious  a  deed 
as  to  heap  stones  on  a  holy  icon  ?  To  the  mind  of 
Ivan  there  was  but  one  explanation  of  his  dis- 
covery :  the  icon  had  dropped  from  heaven  and  its 
presence  in  the  cellar  was  a  sign  of  Divine  favour. 
He  crossed  himself  and  bowed  before  the  Mother 
of  God  and  the  little  Jesus.  He  knelt  and  kissed 
their  faces,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  move  the  pic- 
ture. Who  was  he  to  take  into  his  hands  a  gift 
from  the  Almighty  brought  by  angels? 

There  was  holy  mirth  that  night  in  Ivan's 

222 


My  Slav  Friends 

cottage,  coming  and  going;  for  the  news  of  the 
miraculous  apparition  spread  quickly  through  the 
village,  and  every  man  and  woman  and  child 
came  to  do  reverence  to  the  picture  and  to  rejoice 
with  Ivan  and  his  family.  Down  into  the  murky 
cellar  they  went  and  praised  the  Lord  for  His 
goodness.  Ivan's  humility  forbade  him  to  think 
that  the  benediction  of  the  icon  was  for  his  house- 
hold alone.  What  had  he  done  to  deserve  so 
signal  a  favour?  The  icon  was  a  token  of  the 
especial  love  of  God  for  all  the  village. 

The  nearest  church  was  fourteen  miles  away,  and 
on  the  morrow  of  the  gladdest  day  that  ever 
dawned  on  the  village  Ivan  went  thither  to  be- 
seech the  priest  to  return  with  him  and  place  the 
icon  in  the  village  chapel,  a  little  chamber  with  a 
window,  through  which  passers-by  can  see  the  gilded 
icons  within  and  the  lamp  that  burns  before  them. 
And  the  priest,  a  man  with  a  beard  and  long  hair 
that  made  him  look  like  the  apostles  in  church 
windows,  came  gladly,  and  all  the  village  met  him. 
In  his  vestments  and  with  a  little  censer  in  his  hand, 
he  climbed  down  the  ladder  into  Ivan's  cellar.  The 
peasants  followed  him,  and  those  for  whom  there 
was  not  room  in  the  cellar  stood  in  the  living- 
room  above  or  in  the  street.  The  priest  censed 
the  picture  and  chanted  prayers,  and  all  the  vil- 
lagers bowed  and  crossed  themselves  many  times. 
Then  the  holy  man  lifted  up  the  precious  icon, 
blessed  the  people  with  it,  and  bore  it  to  the  little 
chapel.  All  followed  him  in  silence,  and  those 

223 


My  Slav  Friends 

who  could  kept  a  finger  on  the  sacred  picture 
as  they  moved  in  the  procession.  The  priest 
placed  the  icon  in  the  chapel,  and  all  the  people 
stood  without  and  worshipped  while  he  chanted 
a  molyeben.  And  when  he  had  done,  he  turned 
and  addressed  the  villagers,  telling  them  that  a 
village  chapel,  in  which  the  liturgy  was  not  cele- 
brated, could  not  be  considered  a  suitable  home 
for  a  miraculous  icon,  and  that  he  would  return  in 
a  few  days  and  take  it  to  be  placed  in  the  distant 
church  he  served. 

There  was  consternation  among  the  villagers. 
Were  they  to  be  robbed  of  the  heavenly  treasure 
the  Almighty  had  been  pleased  to  send  them  ? 
The  thought  was  intolerable,  and  they  told  their 
pastor  plainly  that  nothing  would  induce  them  to 
part  with  that  blessed  picture  of  the  Virgin  and 
the  little  Jesus. 

Now  the  priest  was  a  good  man,  but  he  was 
poor  and  his  family  was  large.  It  may  be  assumed 
that  he  did  not  question  the  Divine  provenance 
of  the  icon  of  the  cellar,  for  in  point  of  intellectual 
ability  he  was  not  greatly  the  superior  of  his 
parishioners.  His  cupidity  equalled  his  credulity. 
He  thought  of  the  riches  that  an  icon,  fallen  out 
of  heaven,  would  bring  to  him,  if  he  could  but 
gain  possession  of  it  and  set  it  up  in  his  church. 
All  the  countryside  would  come  to  see  the  marvel- 
lous thing  and  to  pray  before  it.  The  church 
would  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage.  And  pil- 
grims would  want  him  to  stand  before  the  icon 

224 


My  Slav  Friends 

with  a  little  censer  in  his  hand  and  recite  prayers. 
There  would  be  molyebens  for  a  number  of  people 
in  common,  and  each  would  give  him  a  little  offer- 
ing. And  there  would  be  individual  molyebens 
which  might  bring  in  as  much  as  a  rouble.  And 
a  profit  might  be  made  on  the  sale  of  copies  of 
the  icon.  Vassili  might  be  sent  to  study  in  the 
University  of  Tomsk,  And  Tatiana  might  be 
given  a  marriage-portion,  that  would  secure  her  a 
brilliant  marriage  with  the  son  of  a  rich  merchant. 
And  so  the  worthy  man  began  to  elaborate  plans 
for  possessing  himself  of  the  icon. 

He  gained  the  powerful  help  of  two  peripatetic 
mission  priests,  who  saw  in  the  icon  the  lodestar 
that  would  bring  the  scattered  inhabitants  of  the 
district  together,  and  the  instrument  that  would 
produce  in  them  the  proper  dispositions  to  profit 
from  the  ministration  of  evangelists.  So  com- 
mercial enterprise  and  religious  zeal  combined  to 
deprive  Ivan  and  his  fellow-villagers  of  their 
palladium. 

The  two  earnest  missionaries  arrived  in  the 
village  and  preached  the  gospel  to  the  inhabitants, 
who  saw  in  their  visit  another  sign  of  Divine 
favour.  And  when  the  preaching  was  done,  the 
missionaries  announced  that  the  miraculous  icon 
must  be  provided  with  a  more  worthy  home  than 
the  village  chapel,  and  that  they  were  going  to 
take  it  away  and  place  it  in  the  keeping  of  the 
priest  of  the  distant  church.  The  peasants,  who 
had  listened  with  such  docility  to  the  preaching, 
Q  225 


My  Slav   Friends 


showed  their  teeth,  swore  that  they  would  defend 
their  icon  with  their  lives,  and  turned  on  the 
missionaries  in  so  threatening  a  manner  that  the 
two  zealots  were  forced  to  retreat. 

When  they  had  gone,  the  peasants  held  a  meet- 
ing to  decide  what  steps  should  be  taken  to  avert 
the  danger  that  menaced  the  village.  It  was 
decided  to  send  Ivan  to  Tomsk,  in  order  to  place 
the  matter  before  the  Archbishop  and  to  secure 
his  protection.  Tomsk  was  far  away,  the  journey 
was  costly,  and  there  was  little  money  in  the 
village;  but  those  poor  souls  made  up  the  sum 
required  in  hoarded  kopecks,  and  on  the  morrow 
Ivan  started  on  his  momentous  journey. 

At  the  palace  of  the  Archbishop  they  told  him 
that  his  High  Holiness  had  gone  away  and  would 
not  return  for  some  weeks.  Nobody  in  the  palace 
was  entitled  to  decide  the  delicate  question  that 
Ivan  propounded.  The  Archbishop  alone  could 
pronounce  on  the  propriety  of  keeping  an  icon, 
alleged  to  be  of  supernatural  provenance,  in  a 
village  chapel.  And  as  Ivan  could  not  stay  in 
Tomsk  until  the  Archbishop's  return,  he  was 
obliged  to  go  home  with  no  better  news  than 
that  the  matter  would  in  due  course  be  laid  before 
his  High  Holiness. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  the  nature  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Tomsk's  judgment.  The  rural 
tale  came  to  me  by  chance  from  the  other  end  of 
the  Russian  empire,  and  I  was  never  able  to  learn 
how  it  ended.  For  aught  I  know  Vassili  may  be 

226 


My  Slav   Friends 

swaggering  in  an  university  town  and  Tatiana 
established  in  life  with  a  rich  merchant,  on  the 
proceeds  of  their  father's  prayers  before  the 
miraculous  icon.  But  I  cling  to  the  hope  that 
those  humble  souls,  who  thought  that  that  picture 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  little  Jesus  had  dropped 
from  heaven,  have  the  consolation  of  keeping  it  in 
their  rude  chapel. 

Here,  then,  is  superstition,  different  in  its 
nature,  though  possibly  from  a  Christian  point 
of  view  less  harmful  in  its  effect,  than  the  super- 
stition so  deeply  rooted  among  the  English,  that 
persons  who  have  neither  conformed  to  the  moral 
code  of  Christianity  nor  observed  the  religious 
practices  it  enjoins  are,  at  death,  transformed  into 
radiant  angels. 

The  question  naturally  arises  whether  fervour 
in  the  superficial  practices  of  religion  among  the 
Russian  peasants  is  an  indication  of  spirituality. 
'  The  prevailing  opinion  among  foreigners,"  says 
a  Russian  writer,  "  is  that  the  Russian  peasants, 
though  imbued  with  many  superstitions,  are 
nevertheless  a  very  religious  race."  I  do  not 
myself  feel  justified  in  adding  to  this  body  of 
foreign  opinion  either  in  one  sense  or  the  other; 
for  I  venture  to  think  it  savours  of  impertinence 
for  a  foreigner  to  make  a  sort  of  ex  cathedra  state- 
ment about  a  question  of  so  difficult  a  nature, 
when  the  Russians  cannot  agree  about  it  among 
themselves.  Let  me  quote  a  Russian  on  the  point. 
"  The  most  prominent  of  our  historians,  N.  Kosto- 

227 


My  Slav   Friends 

marov,"  wrote  Stepniak  in  a  passage  which  shows 
that  political  bias  had  not  destroyed  the  instinct 
of  a  scholar,  "  who  unites  to  his  vast  erudition  an 
unrivalled  historical  insight,  is  of  opinion  that  the 
modern  orthodox  peasants  are  at  much  the  same 
standpoint  as  were  their  forefathers,  the  Musco- 
vites of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  they,  accord- 
ing to  Kostomarov,  '  were  remarkable  for  a  state 
of  such  complete  religious  indifference  as  to  be 
without  a  parallel  in  the  annals  of  Christian 
nations/  Another  historian,  S.  M.  Soloviev  of 
Moscow,  draws  from  the  same  facts  a  different 
conclusion,  extolling  throughout  his  work  the 
1  deep  devotion  '  of  the  Russians  to  their  creed/' 
A  lengthy  catena  of  passages  from  the  writings 
of  Russian  scholars,  whose  learning  is  as  great  as 
their  sincerity  is  undoubted,  might  be  compiled 
to  support  the  opinion  of  Kostomarov  and  the 
view  opposed  to  it  of  Soloviev.  When  I  attempt 
to  balance  these  views  and  to  appraise  these 
opinions,  two  series  of  facts  and  episodes  in  my 
own  experience  come  into  my  mind;  the  one 
might  be  adduced  to  support  the  conclusions  of 
Kostomarov,  and  the  other  to  support  those  of 
Soloviev. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  all  Russian  peasants 
have  the  childlike  faith  of  the  Siberian  villagers, 
whose  tale  I  have  told.  The  priest  of  a  village  in 
the  government  of  Moscow  spoke  to  me  sadly  of 
the  change  he  saw  in  his  parishioners.  Once  the 
church  was  crowded,  now  the  congregation  is 

228 


My  Slav   Friends 

sparse.  And  the  former  reverence  for  the  holy 
icons  is  slowly  dying.  In  the  progress  of  a  reli- 
gious procession  through  the  village,  he  had  found 
some  of  the  young  people  making  game  of  the 
sacred  images. 

One  summer  morning  I  was  in  a  little  town  on 
the  festival  of  a  miraculous  icon,  a  great  picture 
of  Our  Lady  and  the  Divine  Child.  It  was  set 
on  a  wooden  stand,  furnished  with  poles,  that 
rested  on  the  shoulders  of  the  four  men  who  bore 
it,  two  on  either  side.  The  townspeople  stood  in 
single  file  all  down  the  chief  street,  and  as  the 
image  made  its  progress  they  ducked  their  heads 
and  bent  their  backs,  so  that  it  might  pass  over 
them.  As  each  received  this  odd  benediction,  he 
fell  in  behind  the  icon,  so  that  those  who  were  first 
in  the  procession  when  it  started  were  pushed 
further  and  further  back,  until  half  the  population 
of  the  town  were  between  them  and  the  icon. 
Some  of  the  people  were  very  serious,  and  some 
seemed  to  be  amused  at  having  to  bend  themselves 
to  a  right  angle.  I  stood  at  the  side  of  the  broad 
street  to  watch  the  ceremony,  and  passed  the  time 
of  day  with  a  young  dandy  who  happened  to  be 
standing  next  me,  a  lad  of  eighteen,  whose  name 
was  Plato,  in  top-boots,  black  breeches,  and  a 
blouse  of  sky-blue  sateen,  tied  in  at  the  waist  with 
a  sky-blue  cord  that  ended  in  tassels. 

"  But  don't  let  me  keep  you,"  I  said,  after 
Plato  and  I  had  agreed  that  the  weather  was 
perfect  and  he  had  given  me  an  account  of  the 

229 


My  Slav   Friends 


miraculous  discovery  of  the  image.     "  It  is  time 
for  you  to  get  a  place  to  pass  under  the  icon." 
"  I'm  not  going,"  he  said. 

"  Really? "  I  said,  with  a  shade  of  interrogation 
in  my  voice. 

"  No,"  he  answered;  "  I  am  not  a  believer." 
"  But  you  are  Orthodox?  "  I  asked. 
"  Of  course,"  he  answered;    "  I'm  Russian." 
"  And  you've  come  out  for  the  procession." 
"It's  the  custom,"  he  said;  and  when  I  told 
him  that  I  was  going  to  follow  the  people  out  of 
the  town  and  over  the  heath  to  the  holy  well,  he 
said  he  would  like  to  come  with  me. 

Beyond  the  houses,  we  took  a  short  cut  in 
order  to  get  to  the  well  before  the  icon,  and  we 
lost  sight  of  the  procession.  Under  our  feet  was 
yielding  turf.  The  blue  sky  was  radiant.  Before 
us  stretched  the  green  country.  Butterflies 
hovered  above  the  grass,  darting  hither  and  thither, 
butterflies  with  wings  as  blue  as  Plato's  eyes, 
sulphur  butterflies  that  flew  up  so  high  that  the 
sunshine  eclipsed  their  pale  wings.  Plato  threw 
off  his  cap,  like  a  yachting  cap,  tossed  it  into  the 
air,  and  caught  it.-  The  wind  ruffled  his  yellow 
hair,  carefully  combed  down  to  his  eyebrows. 

"  It's  good  to  live,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 
'  You  know,"  he  went  on,  "  as  I  said  just  now,  I 
don't  believe.  Many,  many  things  I  don't  believe," 
and  never,  I  thought,  as  he  turned  and  looked  at 
me,  twisting  his  cap  in  his  hand,  had  a  sceptic 
more  candid  eyes. 

230 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  And  why  I  don't  believe,  I  can't  tell  you/'  he 
continued ;  "  so  it  happens  "  ;  and  he  asked  if  the 
English  held  the  same  views  as  the  Orthodox  about 
the  Sacrament. 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  it  was  difficult  to 
believe  that  there  was  not  a  God. 

"  Of  course  God  must  be,  and  the  Mother  of 
God,"  he  assented. 

The  holy  well  was  a  spring  of  water  bubbling 
up  in  a  little  pool,  over  which  there  was  a  thatch 
roof  supported  on  wooden  posts.  The  bearers 
of  the  miraculous  icon,  the  priests  in  yellow  robes 
and  cylindrical  hats  of  purple  velvet,  went  through 
the  wicket  in  the  palisade  surrounding  the  pool, 
and  as  many  people  as  could  find  standing-room 
within  the  enclosure  followed  them.  The  great 
picture,  in  a  casing  of  glittering  metal  in  which 
were  apertures  to  display  the  blackened  faces 
and  hands  of  the  Virgin  and  Christ,  was 
taken  from  its  stand  by  the  priests  and  dipped 
into  the  pool  to  bless  the  waters  anew.  Was 
this  some  curious  conjunction  of  Christian  rites 
and  rites  that  were  performed  in  the  Russian  land 
before  Vladimir,  the  saint,  cast  the  image  of  Perun 
into  the  Dnieper  and  caused  his  subjects  to  be 
christened  in  the  river?  Plato  did  not  know  the 
significance  of  the  ceremony.  Nobody  seemed  to 
know. 

"  It  is  the  custom,"  they  said. 

Numbers  of  people  had  brought  bottles  with 
them,  and  they  filled  them  from  the  holy  spring. 

231 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  Little  father,  I  beg  you  to  fill  my  bottle,"  said 
an  old  woman,  passing  an  empty  vodka-bottle 
to  an  old  peasant  within  the  palisade  around  the 
pool.  And  she  drank  a  draught,  useful  for  the 
body  and  of  benefit  to  the  soul,  when  he  gave  her 
back  her  bottle  filled  with  the  healing  water. 

Some  of  the  men  dipped  their  caps  into  the 
spring  and  drank.  I  saw  one  man  give  his  drip- 
ping cap  to  an  eager  woman,  and  she  drank  from 
it.  Those  who  could  not  get  near  the  well  drank 
the  water  that  issued  from  it  and  trickled  at  the 
bottom  of  a  muddy  ditch. 

"  Very,  very  beneficial,"  said  a  thankful  woman, 
wiping  her  lips  with  her  apron. 

Plato  watched  the  scene  with  interest  and  did 
not  permit  himself  the  indulgence  of  even  a  flicker 
of  a  sceptical  smile;  but  he  was  a  spectator, 
nothing  more,  and  I  realized  that  he  felt  his  intel- 
lectual position  to  be  superior  to  that  of  a  believer 
in  the  magical  properties  of  ditch-water.  He  was 
unable  to  explain  the  mental  process  which  had 
led  him  to  reject  the  teaching  of  the  Church.  He 
had  lost  his  faith — that  was  all  there  was  to  be 
said — and  he  may  find  it  again  and  be  as  puzzled 
to  account  for  its  recovery  as  for  its  loss. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Plato's  vague 
unbelief  should  spread  among  the  lower  classes 
of  Russia.  The  men  and  women  who  have  the 
greatest  influence  on  public  opinion,  the  "  godless 
intelligentzia  "  (to  use  the  expression  employed 
by  the  late  Father  John  of  Kronstadt  in  a  letter 

232 


My  Slav   Friends 

I  received  from  him),  the  leaders  in  the  struggle 
for  Freedom  and  the  limitation  of  the  power  of 
the  Crown,  are  usually  indifferent  to  the  teaching 
of  the  Church.     The  enslavement  of  the  Church 
by  the  State,  and  the  union  of  the  temporal  and 
spiritual  power  in  the  person  of  the  sovereign,  have 
led  some  of  them  to  regard  a  blow  against  Ortho- 
doxy as  also  one  against  Autocracy,  and  the  clergy 
show  a  disposition  to  take  a  similar  view.     Most 
of  the  intelligentzia,  however,  appear  to  think  that 
the    intellectual    feebleness    of    the    Church    will 
loosen  her  hold  on  the  masses,  and  the  spread  of 
education  complete  the  process  of  disintegration 
which  they  have  initiated.      As  it  is,  their  indif- 
ference is   not   without   its   effect   on  the  lower 
classes.     The  country  people,  who  flock  into  the 
towns  for  work,  remark  the  disregard  of  religious 
practices,  the  performance  of  which  they  have  been 
accustomed   to    consider   essential    to    salvation. 
Those  who  become  factory-hands  very  commonly 
substitute  belief  in  the  doctrines  of  socialism  for 
belief  in  those  of  Christianity.     Servants  find  that 
it  is  not  considered  necessary  to  observe  the  fasts 
of  the   Church.     An  elderly   cook  may  prepare 
agreeable  dishes  in  Lent,  the  Great  Fast,  for  the 
family  she  serves  and,  adhering  to  the  pious  habits 
of  youth,  subsist  herself  on  bread  and  a  soup 
made  of  potatoes  and  dried  mushrooms.     Younger 
servants  are  apt  to  follow  the  example  of  their 
superiors.     And  there  are  servant  girls  who  go 
back  to  the  villages  to  marry,  workmen  who  return 

233 


My  Slav  Friends 

to  the  plough.  Out  in  the  country  I  have  talked 
with  a  peasant  who  had  settled  down  to  till  the 
ground  after  working  in  a  Petrograd  factory  for 
a  number  of  years.  He  had  embraced  the  extreme 
views  of  the  Social  Revolutionaries.  With  a 
persuasive  tongue  and  the  glamour  of  the  town 
upon  him,  he  could  hardly  fail  to  exercise  a  strong 
influence  on  the  young  men  of  his  village.  And, 
at  a  touch  of  doubt,  down  tumbles  the  glittering 
edifice  of  icons  that  has  been  erected  on  the 
dogmas  of  the  Orthodox  Church.  And  the  clergy 
are  ill-prepared  to  combat  even  superficial  in- 
fidelity. They  are  prone  to  rely  on  the  power  of 
fear  and  sentiment  to  safeguard  the  treasure  of 
the  gospel.  A  tract,  given  me  in  exchange  for 
an  alms  by  a  nun  at  the  festival  of  the  miraculous 
icon — she  wore  top-boots,  a  rusty  black  dress 
with  a  short  skirt,  and  a  black  shawl  over  her 
head — was  typical  of  the  method  employed  to 
retain  the  allegiance  of  the  masses.  It  gave  a 
terrifying  account  of  the  appalling  calamities 
that  befell  a  bad  girl  who  abandoned  the  practices 
of  orthodox  piety.  Had  I  given  it  to  the  sceptical 
Plato,  it  would,  I  think,  have  confirmed  him  in 
unbelief.  In  point  of  fact  I  did  not  give  it  him ; 
I  gave  him  a  rouble,  which  he  gave  me  to  under- 
stand would  provide  him  and  the  beautiful  Pras- 
covia,  whom  I  did  not  have  the  advantage  of 
meeting,  with  all  the  fun  of  the  fair  that  evening. 

That  unbelief  will  spread  among  the  masses  is, 
I  think,  inevitable.      At  the  same  time  the  need 

234 


My  Slav   Friends 

of  religion  will  turn  the  minds  of  the  people  to 
the  teaching  of  the  rivals  of  the  clergy  of  the 
Dominating  Church.  Borba  s  Katolikami,  borba 
s  Baptistami,  the  struggle  with  the  Catholics,  the 
struggle  with  the  Baptists,  are  terms  to  be  found  in 
the  Orthodox  press  since  the  imperial  ukase  of  April 
1905  gave  Russians  the  right  to  leave  the  Orthodox 
fold  and  deprived  the  clergy  of  the  advantage  of 
employing  the  police  as  the  watch-dogs  of  their 
flocks.  The  Baptists,  according  to  Mr.  Byford, 
the  continental  organizer  of  the  body,  have  made 
a  quarter  of  a  million  converts  in  Russia  during 
the  last  forty  years.  They  possess  650  churches 
and,  besides  their  adherents  in  Russia  proper, 
have  28,000  believers  in  Siberia  and  11,000  in 
the  Caucasus.  I  went  to  one  of  their  services  in 
Petrograd,  and  realized  the  strength  of  their  appeal 
to  humble  people.  The  translations  of  jingling 
American  hymns  they  sang  would  possibly  have 
repelled  those  who  appreciate  the  sublime  poetry 
of  the  anthems  of  the  liturgy,  but  they  comforted 
those  poor  souls.  They  hung  on  the  words  of  the 
pastor.  At  the  end  of  his  discourse,  when  all 
were  kneeling  and  he  asked  any  sister  or  brother 
who  accepted  the  Saviour  to  raise  the  right  hand, 
an  elderly  woman  near  me  burst  into  tears.  The 
consciousness,  not  untouched  with  pride,  of  being 
a  little  flock  of  the  Lord's  elect,  set  in  the  midst 
of  an  erring  city,  transformed  the  bare  room  into 
a  portal  of  heaven. 

The  appeal  of  Protestantism  to  the  emotions 

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My  Slav   Friends 

is  stronger  than  that  of  Orthodoxy.  In  an  Ortho- 
dox church  I  feel  that  the  people  have  come 
together  to  worship  the  Almighty ;  in  the  room  of 
the  Baptists  I  felt  they  had  come  together  to  be 
consoled  by  Him.  Protest ancy,  while  weakening 
the  Dominant  Church,  may  retard  the  process  of 
decay  that  has  begun  in  Russia;  but,  if  it  is 
to  be  judged  by  its  achievements  in  the  land  of 
its  origin,  where  it  has  become  a  disintegrator 
of  faith,  it  cannot  permanently  arrest  the  pro- 
gress of  unbelief.  The  influence  of  the  Orthodox 
Church  is  waning,  and  the  number  of  those  who 
heed  her  voice  is  diminishing,  and  this  process 
will  continue.  That  an  institution  whose  founda- 
tions are  laid  so  deep  in  the  holy  Russian  land 
should  collapse,  as  some  hold,  when  the  power  of 
the  Russian  sovereigns  ceases,  as  it  inevitably 
must,  to  be  autocratic,  is  an  idea  that  appears 
to  me  false.  Orthodoxy  spread  her  majestic 
mantle  over  the  land  centuries  before  a  Muscovite 
prince  blazoned  the  two-headed  eagle  on  his  shield, 
and  equipped  himself  with  the  tools  of  state-craft 
that  had  grown  rusty  in  Byzantium.  The  first 
step  in  the  regeneration  of  the  Orthodox  Church 
will  be  her  release  from  the  proud  and  ignoble 
position  in  which  the  State  has  placed  her.  And 
out  of  the  West,  when  we  are  lying  under  the 
turf,  will  come  the  light  that  will  guide  her  into 
peace. 

Let  me  fling  aside  the  prophet's  cloak,   that 
ill  becomes  me,  and  tell  a  tale  of  the  icons  with 

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My  Slav   Friends 

which  this  chapter  began.     I  shall  tell  it  as  it  was 
told  to  me  by  Anna  Ivanovna. 

'  They  say  it  was  the  prayers  of  St.  Seraphim 
that  gave  us  an  heir  to  the  throne/'  she  said.  "  I 
do  not  know  if  that  is  true,  nobody  can  know,  but 
to-day  I  have  heard  a  remarkable  story  of  his 
power.  It  was  told  me  by  a  friend  who  knows 
the  people  and  whose  word  I  can  rely  on.  They 
had  a  child,  a  little  boy  of  seven,  whom  they  loved 
very  much,  and  they  let  him  have  a  pony  so  that 
he  might  learn  to  ride.  Well,  there  was  an  acci- 
dent :  he  fell  off  the  pony  and  was  badly  injured. 
The  doctors  did  all  they  could — the  father  got 
the  very  best  doctors  for  the  child — but  the  boy 
grew  worse,  and  at  last  the  doctors  had  to  tell 
them  that  his  life  could  not  be  saved.  The  mother 
was  Orthodox,  and  she  begged  her  husband,  who 
was  a  Lutheran,  to  telegraph  to  Father  John  of 
Kronstadt  and  beg  him  to  pray  for  the  child,  and 
to  telegraph  to  the  monastery,  where  the  relics 
of  St.  Seraphim  are  kept,  for  an  icon  of  the  saint. 
And  just  to  please  her,  her  husband  did  as  she 
asked.  The  child  became  gradually  weaker,  and 
two  days  later  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

"  '  It  is  the  last  sleep  before  death/  said  the 
doctor.  '  When  he  wakes,  it  will  be  the  end/ 

"  So  his  mother  sat  at  the  bedside  and  watched. 
But  when  he  woke,  he  seemed  better,  and  sat  up 
in  bed. 

"  '  Mother/  he  said,  '  I've  had  such  a  funny 
dream.  An  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard 

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My  Slav   Friends 

came  into  my  room,  and  he  knelt  down  by  the  bed 
and  prayed  a  long  time.  And  then  he  got  up  and 
put  his  hands  on  my  head/ 

"  His  mother  sent  for  the  doctor,  who  came 
and  examined  him. 

'"I  cannot  understand  it/  he  said.  '  Humanly 
speaking  the  child  was  bound  to  die.  He  is  cured. 
He  is  going  to  live/ 

"  And  that  evening  the  icon  of  St.  Seraphim 
came  from  the  monastery,  which  is  far  away  and 
beyond  the  railways.  The  child  was  sleeping 
again,  and  his  mother  put  the  icon  at  the  foot  of 
his  cot,  leaning  against  the  rail. 

"  '  Mother,  mother/  he  cried,  when  he  woke 
up  and  saw  it ;  '  that's  the  old  man  who  came  into 
the  room/  " 


238 


•s    05 

a  I! 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON  the  way  from  Pskov  to  Vilna  I  talked  to 
nobody.  I  lay  on  a  wooden  shelf  in  the  dark, 
listening  to  the  sleeping  soldiers  who  were  lying 
on  the  other  shelves  and  on  the  seats  of  the 
rumbling  railway-carriage.  And  when  the  dawn 
came  and  the  soldiers  got  up,  I  was  too  sleepy 
to  speak  with  them,  and  sat  at  a  window,  looking 
at  the  boundless  plain  over  which  we  were  passing 
and  then  at  the  low  hills,  with  belts  of  larch  and 
pine,  of  the  pleasant  valley  of  the  Vilia.  The 
soldiers  were  drinking  tea  and  smoking  par- 
simonious cigarettes,  rolled  in  newspaper,  when 
we  arrived  at  Vilna  and  I  left  them. 

I  took  a  cab,  a  rickety  victoria,  and  drove  up 
the  steep  road  that  leads  to  the  city  from  the 
railway-station  in  the  outskirts.  The  day  was 
young  and  men  were  on  their  way  to  work.  At 
a  turn  of  the  road  I  caught  sight  of  a  high  gate- 
way, with  a  fa$ade  of  glowing  ochre,  unpierced  by 
windows,  that  towered  above  the  dingy  houses 
flanking  it  on  either  side.  It  was  the  Ostra 
Brama. 

The  cab  went  slowly  up  to  the  yellow  gate  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  High  on  the  ancient  wall, 
that  looked  so  new,  I  could  see  a  shield,  blazoned 
with  the  arms  of  Lithuania,  a  white  knight  on 

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My  Slav  Friends 


a  white  charger.  We  creaked  out  of  the  sunshine 
into  the  coolness  of  the  archway  of  the  bar,  and 
the  coachman  took  off  his  hat.  The  men  in  the 
carts  and  carriages  that  crowded  the  narrow 
street  beyond  were  all  bareheaded,  and  I  heard 
the  sound  of  the  thin  voices  of  boys,  singing 
a  hymn,  that  seemed  to  come  from  above  the 
vaulting  of  the  gateway.  And  as  we  came  into 
the  sunshine  again,  I  looked  round  and  saw,  through 
the  open  window  of  the  chamber  of  the  bar,  a  silver 
picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  before  which  quivered 
the  pale  flames  of  candles.  To  the  right  and  the 
left  of  the  window  shone  the  golden  letters  of 
an  inscription,  Ad  Te  confugimus,  Mater  Miseri- 
cordiae,  and  the  anthem  that  the  choristers  were 
singing  was  Salve  Regina.  Their  voices  caressed 
the  last  words  of  the  prayer,  0  clemens,  0  pia, 
0  dulcis  Virgo  Maria,  that  floated  above  the 
creaking  of  carts  and  the  panting  of  motors.  On 
the  pavement  at  either  side  of  the  street  people 
were  kneeling.  Some  of  them  were  reading 
prayers  from  books.  Some  had  rosaries  in  their 
hands  and  were  gazing  at  the  silver  picture. 
Some  were  praying  with  closed  eyes.  And  none 
of  them  seemed  to  notice  the  passers-by  or  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  traffic.  All  down  the  street, 
almost  as  far  as  the  church  of  St.  Theresa,  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  Ostra  Brama,  there  were 
people  at  their  prayers,  men  and  women,  rich 
and  poor. 

The  cab  rattled  along,  past  the  gateways  of 
two  monasteries,  painted  with  the  oriental  figures 

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My  Slav  Friends 


of  Orthodox  saints,  as  if  the  monks  desired  to 
advertise  the  bewildered  traveller  that  he  had 
not  been  translated  on  some  magic  carpet  out 
of  Russia  into  Spain. 

At  the  hotel  they  gave  me  a  room  with  a  window 
giving  on  the  Theatre  Square,  the  heart  of  the 
city.  At  the  other  side  of  the  square  was  a  mag- 
nificent Italian  church,  on  the  top  of  which  had 
been  perched  a  number  of  onion-shaped  domes 
and  Russian  crosses,  which  looked  almost  as 
ridiculous  in  such  a  situation  as  they  would 
if  they  were  put  on  the  roof  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 

I  had  not  been  in  the  room  three  minutes 
before  a  young  Jew,  of  fleshy  habit  of  body  and 
dark  complexion,  entered  with  an  enormous  pile 
of  fur-lined  overcoats  in  his  arms.  His  eyes 
were  lustrous  and  his  full  lips  almost  scarlet. 

"  The  Herr  has  arrived  in  Vilna  at  a  most 
favourable  moment,"  he  said,  speaking  in  German 
with  great  rapidity. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  I  asked  in  Russian. 

"  Your  High  Nobility  has  arrived  in-  Vilna  at 
a  most  favourable  moment/'  he  repeated,  speak- 
ing in  Russian  with  equal  rapidity.  "  There  is 
a  great,  an  unprecedented,  a  marvellous  oppor- 
tunity !  A  merchant  of  the  city  has  just  sold 
his  entire  stock  of  furs  for  almost  nothing,  and 
I  have  come  to  show  you  a  selection  of  overcoats, 
magnificent,  luxurious  overcoats,  which  I  am 
almost  giving  away/'  and  he  put  his  pile  of  furs 
down  on  the  floor/' 

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My  Slav   Friends 


It  was  a  hot  September  day,  and  the  sight  of 
the  furs  made  me  feel  hotter. 

"I  don't  want  an  overcoat/'  I  said;  "please 
go  away." 

He  did  not  budge.  He  continued  to  talk  with 
great  rapidity  and  singular  effrontery,  and  spread 
out  one  of  the  overcoats,  a  hideous  garment,  made 
by  a  slop- tailor  in  his  sloppiest  way. 

"  It  is  useless  to  talk,"  I  said. 

That  was  a  view  which  he  refused  to  accept. 

(<  For  sixty  roubles,  Barin,  you  can  have  this 
superb  coat,"  he  said.  "  If  you  had  come  an 
hour  later  there  wouldn't  have  been  one  left. 
Everybody  in  the  hotel  is  buying  them.  They 
realize  that  there  will  never  be  such  a  chance 
again." 

"  Get  out  this  instant,"  I  said  in  a  tone  that 
might  have  led  him  to  assume  that  disobedience 
would  be  followed  by  murder. 

He  picked  up  the  pile  of  furs  and  stood  his 
ground,  continuing  to  praise  his  wares.  So  I 
took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  pushed  him  gently 
out  of  the  room.  He  retired  with  lamblike 
docility,  and  we  bade  each  other  a  cordial  good- 
morning.  Ten  minutes  later  I  found  him  in  the 
street  outside  the  hotel,  and  he  besought  me  to 
look  at  a  selection  of  fur  boas.  As  I  fled  from 
him,  I  heard  him  remark  that  any  one  of  them 
might  suitably  be  worn  by  a  countess. 

I  walked  at  random  along  a  street,  appro- 
priately named  German  Street,  for  it  is  inhabited 
by  Jews,  who  speak  debased  German,  corrupted 

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My  Slav   Friends 

with  Polish  words,  the  tongue  which  the  Poles 
call  jargon — pronounced  yargon — and  we  call 
Yiddish.  And  after  a  little  I  turned  back  and 
went  past  the  Orthodox  monasteries  and  the 
little  church  of  St.  Theresa  to  the  shrine  of  our 
Lady  of  the  Gateway,  a  fantastic  way  that  seemed 
to  begin  in  Whitechapel,  pass  through  Moscow, 
and  end  in  Rome.  I  began  to  wonder  how  the 
inhabitants  got  on  together.  A  lady,  who  looked 
like  an  Englishwoman  with  a  tendency  to  dis- 
trict-visiting, threw  some  light  on  the  situation. 
She  sat  at  a  little  stall,  strewn  with  rosaries  and 
prayer-books  and  pious  pictures,  in  the  hall  from 
which  a  staircase  leads  to  the  chapel  in  the  Ostra 
Brama.  I  stood  to  look  at  her  wares,  after  I  had 
been  to  salute  the  Lady  of  the  silver  picture. 

"How  much  is  this?'  I  asked,  speaking  in 
Russian  and  picking  up  a  little  engraving  of  that 
sweet  Matka  Boska  Ostrobramska,  of  the  Mother 
of  God  of  the  Gateway. 

She  answered  in  Polish. 

"  Piench  kopake,"  she  said,  which  means  five 
kopecks. 

"  Pyat  kopake,"  I  said,  which  was  the  same 
thing  in  Russian. 

"  Piench  kopake/'  she  repeated  firmly,  as  if 
I  had  been  trying  to  beat  down  the  price. 

"  I'll  have  six  of  them,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me  icily  and  shot  out  a  sentence 
in  Polish,  which  I  did  not  understand,  but  I  took 
the  opportunity  of  airing  one  of  my  few  Polish 
phrases. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

"  Does  the  Pani  speak  Russian?  "  I  asked. 

"  Doesn't  the  Pan  speak  Polish  ?  "  she  answered. 

That  feminine  evasion  pleased  me,  and  convinced 
me  that  she  could  speak  Russian  if  she  wished. 

"Now  look  here/'  I  said;  "I  am  a  foreigner, 
an  Englishman.  I  can  speak  Russian  and  I 
can't  speak  Polish." 

Like  ice  in  the  caress  of  the  sun,  her  obstinate 
expression  melted  into  an  amiable  smile,  and  she 
prattled  agreeably  in  fluent  Russian. 

And  I  loved  her  for  her  obstinacy.  She  was 
a  soldier  in  the  Polish  army,  defending  the  greatest 
fortress  of  nationality,  which  the  Russian  Govern- 
ment, inspired  by  a  false  idea  of  imperial  unity 
and  egged  on  by  Prussia,  has  besieged  for  long 
years.  But  if  I  went  to  Vilna  now  and  found 
the  lady  at  her  little  stall,  it  would  not  be  neces- 
sary to  hold  a  bilingual  palaver ;  for  the  war  has 
made  Poles  and  Russians  brothers. 

Half  a  century  ago,  when  Muraviev  made  the 
streets  of  Vilna  red  with  the  blood  of  Poles  who 
had  made  their  last  and  most  disastrous  bid  for 
freedom,  the  tension  between  Poles  and  Russians, 
between  Poles  and  Jews,  who,  caring  nothing 
for  either  side  in  a  dispute  of  Christians  have 
a  natural  tendency  to  side  with  the  top  dog,  was 
far  greater  than  it  was  when  I  was  in  Vilna,  as 
a  tale  told  me  by  an  old  Polish  lady  shows. 

"  My  grandmother  used  to  live  in  Vilna,"  she 
said,  "  and  when  she  took  a  cab,  she  used  always 
to  say  to  the  driver  that  before  starting  they 
would  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  for  Divine  pro- 

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My  Slav  Friends 

tection  on  the  way.  Now  if  the  driver  made  the 
cross  from  right  to  left,  she  knew  he  was  a  Russian ; 
so  she  did  not  take  his  cab.  If  he  didn't  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross  at  all,  she  knew  he  was  a 
Jew ;  so  she  didn't  take  his  cab.  But  if  the  man 
crossed  himself  from  left  to  right,  she  knew  he 
was  a  Catholic,  and  got  into  the  cab." 

But  from  the  lady  of  the  rosary  stall  I  learnt 
that,  in  the  presence  of  the  benign  Mother  of  the 
Gateway,  differences  of  language  and  of  race  and 
of  creed  are  forgotten.  The  shrine  is  Polish  and 
therefore  Roman,  but  Russians  venerate  the 
silver  picture,  and  even  the  Jews  conform  to  an 
universal  custom  and  uncover  as  they  pass 
through  the  bar  in  respect  to  the  faith  of  others. 
I  was  not  surprised.  The  silver  picture  has  a 
power  that  I  do  not  understand  and  cannot 
analyse.  The  famed  Madonna  of  the  Dresden 
Gallery  is  the  only  picture  that  has  made  me 
tremble ;  but,  as  Nijinski  said  of  a  London  church, 
it  does  not  make  one  want  to  pray.  And  yet 
it  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of  all  pictures. 
An  artist  would  say  that  the  picture  of  the  Ostra 
Brama  is  worthless.  Its  guardians  think  so  little 
of  its  merits  that  they  have  placed  it  in  a  silver 
encasement,  so  that  only  the  face  and  the  hands 
of  the  Virgin  are  visible.  And  the  face  and  hands 
are  olive,  almost  black.  Twice  every  day  the 
windows  of  the  chamber  in  the  bar  are  flung  open 
and  the  street  is  transformed  into  the  nave  of  a 
cathedral.  All  day  long  there  are  people  at  their 
prayers,  and  the  flagstones  of  the  pavements  are 

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My   Slav   Friends 

worn  with  the  knees  of  pilgrims.  And  the  fame 
of  the  picture  is  in  all  the  churches.  Copies  of 
it  are  set  up  in  English  churches  or  in  German 
churches.  I  have  seen  impressions  of  it  printed 
in  Germany,  in  the  country  of  the  traditional 
enemies  of  Poland,  with  a  title  in  many  languages. 
What  is  the  secret  of  the  empire  of  the  Matka 
Boska  Ostrobramska  over  the  hearts  of  Christians  ? 
Is  it  that  each  bedesman,  when  he  looks  up  at 
Her,  sees  in  the  setting  of  silver  and  jewels  the 
picture  of  the  Virgin  that  he  made  in  his  heart, 
when  he  learnt  to  say  Ave  Maria  at  his  mother's 
knee? 

Years  ago  the  Russians  took  a  picture  of  Christ, 
which  was  beloved  by  the  people  of  Vilna,  from 
a  Latin  church  and  placed  it  in  an  Orthodox 
church. 

"  The  next  thing  they  will  do  is  to  take  away 
the  Virgin  of  the  Gateway//  said  a  Polish  lady 
to  a  cabman,  who  was  driving  her  through  the 
streets  of  Vilna. 

"  No,  ma'am/'  he  said;  "  that  they  will  never 
do." 

"  Why  are  you  so  sure?  "  she  asked. 

"  Our  Lord  allowed  men  to  crucify  him," 
replied  the  man,  "  but  he  never  allowed  them  to 
touch  his  Mother." 

And  in  the  poetry  of  that  answer  lurked  hatred 
created  by  persecution.  How  deep  was  that 
hatred  I  had  occasion  to  discover  for  myself 
that  afternoon,  when  I  climbed  from  the  pleasant 
Botanical  Gardens,  where  children  were  playing, 

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My  Slav  Friends 

to  the  top  of  the  Castle  Mount,  in  order  to  enjoy 
a  view  of  the  city  and  the  valley  of  the  Vilia,  and 
to  see  the  ruins  of  the  stronghold  built  by  Ghedi- 
min,  Prince  of  Lithuania,  conqueror  of  Volhynia 
and  Tchernigov,  who  reigned  in  1320.  An  old 
Pole,  a  man  of  the  people,  was  good  enough  to 
point  out  the  principal  buildings. 

"  That  belonged  to  the  Dominicans/'  he  said, 
pointing  to  a  church  that  rose  above  the  roofs 
of  the  houses  across  the  gardens,  "  but  they  turned 
them  out.  That  was  when  I  was  a  boy.  And 
there  is  the  Russian  cathedral  of  St.  Nicholas/' 
he  continued,  waving  his  hand  in  the  direction 
of  the  Italian  church  with  onion-shaped  domes 
in  the  Theatre  Square;  "it  belonged  to  us  once 
and  the  Jesuits  served  it/'  and  his  voice  was 
charged  with  regret. 

"  Look  at  that  building  with  a  green  roof  on 
the  hill  to  the  left,"  he  cried;  "  it  used  to  be  a 
convent  of  the  Bernardines.  And  who  live  in 
it  now?  ' 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Russian  nuns,"  he  said,  and  had  they  been 
murderesses  the  inflection  he  gave  to  the  words 
could  not  have  been  more  bitter.  "  And  look 
down  there,"  he  went  on,  "  you  can  see  a  statue 
in  front  of  the  Governor's  palace.  That  is  the 
statue  of  Muraviev,  the  butcher  of  '63.  Do 
you  know  that  they  called  the  hangman's  rope 
Muraviev's  necktie?  And  do  you  know  why 
they  have  put  up  that  statue  in  front  of  the 
Governor's  palace?  ' 

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My  Slav  Friends 


I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  They  put  it  there 
in  order  to  remind  the  Governor  of  the  way  in 
which  he  should  treat  the  Poles." 

A  year  later  I  met  a  Polish  engineer,  an  urbane 
man  of  the  world,  in  England,  and  told  him  of 
this  conversation. 

"  We  Poles  subscribed  to  the  fund  for  the 
erection  of  that  statue,"  he  said.  '  We  were 
determined  that  there  should  be  a  lasting  memorial 
of  Muraviev  in  Vilna,  so  that  we  and  our  children 
and  their  children  may  never  forget  the  despotism 
of  Russia." 

Is  it  wise  to  recall  these  tags  of  conversation 
now,  when  Russians  and  Poles  are  fighting  in 
amity  against  a  common  foe?  The  joy  that 
cometh  in  the  morning  springs  from  the  womb 
of  the  night.  In  the  recollection  of  past  wrongs 
the  putting  aside  of  enmity  and  the  unity  of 
friendship  become  more  glorious.  The  sad 
memories  I  have  recalled  show  the  justice  of 
the  promises  made  by  Russia  to  Poland,  and  the 
righteousness  of  the  determination  displayed  by 
the  Russian  people  that  they  shall  be  fulfilled. 
And  as  England  is  not  guiltless  in  the  crime  that 
a  hundred  years  ago  perpetuated  the  partition  of 
Poland,  they  may  serve  to  determine  the  British 
people  to  further  the  designs  and  to  uphold  the 
hands  of  the  Russian  nation. 

On  the  way  back  from  the  Castle  Hill  to  the 
centre  of  the  city  I  went  into  the  cathedral.  It 
is  a  Greek  temple  and  was  probably  considered 

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My  Slav  Friends 

beautiful  in  the  first  decade  of  the  last  century, 
when  it  was  built.  It  has  a  portico  of  great 
Doric  pillars,  supporting  a  tympanum  with 
statuary  representing  Noah  offering  a  sacrifice. 
St.  Helena,  St.  Stanislav,  and  St.  Kasimir  balance 
themselves  dangerously  on  the  slanting  roof. 
And  the  pillars  and  the  statues  look  as  if  they 
were  carved  out  of  suet.  Within  is  a  dim  chapel, 
lit  by  silver  lamps,  which  burn  before  the  silver 
shrine  in  which  lies  the  body  of  St.  Kasimir. 

The  cathedral  is  built  on  the  site  of  a  temple, 
in  which  the  Lithuanians  worshipped  Perkounas, 
the  god  of  light,  until  they  abandoned  paganism 
and  embraced  Christianity  in  1386,  when  their 
Prince,  Jagellon,  married  the  heiress  of  the  Polish 
throne  and  united  in  his  person  Lithuania  and 
Poland.  Some  of  the  greatest  Polish  families 
are  of  Lithuanian  origin.  Their  ancestors  adopted 
the  language  and  the  customs  of  the  polished  race 
with  which  a  royal  marriage  had  united  them, 
and,  at  the  present  day,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
call  a  Sapieha  or  a  Radziwill  a  Lithuanian.  The 
common  people  of  Lithuania  have  conserved 
and  continue  to  speak  the  Lithuanian  tongue. 
It  is  not  a  Slavonic  language.  It  is  akin  to 
Lettish,  which  is  spoken  in  the  country  dominated 
by  Riga,  and  to  Prussian,  which  died  out  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  Philologists  state  that  it 
retains  Indo-European  features  that  have  been 
lost  by  other  languages  centuries  ago.  The  word 
esti,  meaning  it  is,  for  instance,  according  to 
Professor  Meillet  of  the  College  de  France,  is  an 

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My  Slav   Friends 

older  form  even  than  the  asti  of  Sanscrit.  This 
interesting  language  was  only  used  by  peasants 
until  comparatively  lately ;  and  when  the  Russian 
Government  prohibited  the  printing  of  books  in 
Lithuanian,  after  the  Polish  rebellion  of  1863, 
it  seemed  as  if  it  might  share  the  fate  of  ancient 
Prussian.  The  Lithuanians,  however,  cling  to 
the  belief  that  the  curse  which  the  builders  of 
the  Tower  of  Babel  brought  on  mankind  was  in 
reality  a  blessing,  and  continue  to  endeavour  to 
conserve  their  language.  In  country  churches 
there  are  occasionally  bloody  encounters  between 
Lithuanian  peasants  and  Polish  peasants,  who  are 
unable  to  agree  whether  the  hymn-singing  shall 
be  in  Lithuanian  or  in  Polish.  A  church  for 
Poles  and  Lithuanians  was  opened  in  London, 
but  the  ecclesiastical  authorities  soon  found  it 
necessary,  in  the  interests  of  peace  and  charity, 
to  provide  a  separate  chapel  for  the  Lithuanians. 
The  embargo  on  Lithuanian  was  removed  by 
the  Russian  Government  in  1905,  and  books  and 
newspapers  are  now  printed  in  the  language; 
indeed  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  Professor  Dom- 
brovski,  left  an  important  post  in  the  Imperial 
Catholic  Academy  of  Petrograd  in  order  to  become 
editor  of  a  Lithuanian  newspaper.  This  clergyman 
is,  I  believe,  well  known  in  Esperanto  circles,  for 
his  translations  of  the  psalms  in  Esperanto  verse. 
"  I  have  spent  so  much  of  my  life  in  learning 
languages,"  he  said  to  me,  "  that  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  some  universal  language  was 
necessary." 

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His  enthusiasm,  however,  did  not  impel  him 
to  persuade  me  to  learn  Esperanto.  That  task 
was  undertaken — I  hasten  to  say  unsuccessfully— 
by  an  elderly  clerk  of  the  Petrograd  telegraph- 
office,  who  presented  me  with  a  grammar.  He 
was  greatly  concerned  when  the  Daily  News 
discontinued  its  practice  of  printing  a  daily 
paragraph  in  Esperanto. 

Education  has  swept  Lithuanians  into  the 
ranks  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  Vilna  and  other  towns, 
where,  as  in  Wales,  they  tend  to  adopt  the  language 
of  the  gentry,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  men  of 
letters  among  them  and  politicians  dreaming  of 
a  Letto-Lithuanian  state  under  the  suzerainty 
of  Russia.  The  reviving  national  consciousness 
of  the  Lithuanians  is  shown  by  the  resolutions 
passed  by  the  Lithuanian  Congress,  held  in 
Chicago  in  October  1914,  in  one  of  which  is 
embodied  a  demand  for  the  establishment  of  an 
autonomous  Lithuania  after  the  war.  But  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  friction,  which  may  be 
occasionally  noticed,  between  Poles  and  Lithu- 
anians arises  in  the  main  from  class-feeling.  The 
landowners,  the  professional  classes,  the  business 
men,  are  as  a  rule  Polish  or  polonized ;  it  is  easy 
to  understand  that  the  efforts  of  the  Lithuanian 
lower  classes  to  establish  equality  may  be  un- 
consciously masked  by  a  show  of  nationalist 
ambition. 

While  I  was  writing  the  foregoing  the  German 
troops  were  marching  into  Vilna.  They  dese- 

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My  Slav   Friends 

crate  the  streets  of  the  city  and  defile  the  silver 
Vilia,  which  flows  through  the  meadows  surround- 
ing the  Lithuanian  capital.  But  they  are  a 
unifying  force.  History  will  repeat  itself.  Poles 
and  Lithuanians  were  once  enemies.  Early  in 
the  thirteenth  century  the  Poles  espoused  the 
cause  of  the  Teutonic  Knights,  who  fought  against 
the  pagans  of  Lithuania  in  order  to  make  them 
accept  their  Christian  kultur.  But  after  the 
union  of  Poland  and  Lithuania,  the  knights 
showed  that  their  desire  to  give  the  Lithuanians 
the  benefits  of  German  kultur  was  based  on  a 
determination  to  place  them  under  German 
domination.  Poles  and  Lithuanians  fought  side  by 
side  against  the  Teutonic  Knights  and  annihilated 
their  armies  on  the  battlefield  of  Griinewald  in 
1410.  And  it  is  again  the  arrogance  of  German 
kultur  and  the  ambition  it  no  longer  masks  that 
is  uniting  Poles  and  Lithuanians.  Who  can  care 
in  this  dark  hour  whether  a  citizen  is  a  Pole  or 
a  Lithuanian  or  a  Russian?  They  are  brothers 
in  the  face  of  a  common  foe.  And  I  think  of 
them  now  as  children  of  one  family,  kneeling  in 
the  street  that  is  a  cathedral,  praying  to  the  sweet 
Mother  who  is  the  Mirror  of  Justice  as  well  as 
the  Comforter  of  the  Afflicted. 


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CHAPTER  XIII 

I  GOT  into  a  third-class  carriage  of  the  morning 
train  from  Vilna  to  Varshava.  It  was  divided 
into  several  uncomfortable  compartments  with 
wooden  seats  and  low  wooden  backs.  In  my 
compartment  there  was  a  lanky  girl,  who  looked 
about  fourteen,  and  a  dishevelled  soldier.  I 
took  them  to  be  brother  and  sister.  The  girl 
had  sandy  hair  and  a  sallow  face.  She  was 
munching  a  thick  piece  of  ham  laid  on  a  thick 
piece  of  bread,  an  occupation  which  she  occasion- 
ally remitted  in  order  to  talk  with  great  rapidity 
to  the  soldier,  who  laughed  and  chattered  back. 
He  put  a  cushion  for  her  to  lean  against,  and  she 
immediately  gave  herself  the  airs  of  an  invalid 
who  doubts  whether  her  nerves  will  support  the 
discomforts  of  a  long  journey.  Her  attitude  to 
the  soldier  suddenly  changed. 

"  Shut  the  window/'  she  snapped  in  the  most 
imperious  manner. 

The  soldier,  who  had  come  to  my  end  of  the 
compartment  and  was  fumbling  in  a  bag,  paid 
no  attention  to  her. 

"  This  moment  !  "  cried  the  young  lady,  with 
unsisterly  violence.  "  Vassili,  do  you  hear?  this 
moment  !  ' 

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Vassili  flew  to  the  window  in  a  bound  and  put 
it  up. 

"  My  smelling  salts/'  ordered  the  young  lady, 
and  he  found  them  and  offered  them  to  her 
humbly.  She  did  not  deign  to  thank  him.  Then 
the  train  started,  and  Vassili  came  and  sat  opposite 
me.  He  began  to  make  a  cigarette  by  rolling 
a  few  shreds  of  tobacco  in  a  bit  of  newspaper, 
and  so  of  course  I  gave  him  one  of  mine,  and  we 
began  to  talk. 

"  And  where  are  you  going?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  going  anywhere/'  he  said. 
"  I  am  just  taking  the  Barishna,  the  young  lady, 
to  her  school  in  Bielostok.  She's  the  Colonel's 
daughter  and  I'm  the  Colonel's  servant.  And 
when  I've  got  her  safe  into  that  school  I'm  going 
back  to  Dvinsk  where  we  come  from." 

Life  in  the  army,  he  told  me,  might  be  worse, 
and,  as  his  master  was  good  and  his  master's 
cook  generous,  it  was  really  not  a  bad  thing  to 
be  an  officer's  servant.  The  pay  was  poor,  sixty 
kopecks  a  month,  one-and-threepence  then,  about 
ninepence  now,  not  enough  to  provide  a  British 
soldier  with  a  packet  of  Woodbines  a  day. 

"Vassili,"  said  the  Barishna  severely;  "come 
here." 

He  got  up  obediently  and  took  the  place  in  the 
corner  opposite  her.  They  chattered  and  laughed, 
talking  softly  for  ten  minutes  in  the  most  intimate 
manner.  Then  the  young  lady  lay  back  in  her 
seat  with  an  air  of  exhaustion. 

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My  Slav   Friends 


I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  look  at  an 
illustrated  newspaper.  She  checked  my  advances 
with  the  utmost  haughtiness,  and  gave  me  a  look 
that  made  it  clear  that  she  considered  it  an  im- 
pertinence that  a  person  of  my  condition  should 
have  dared  to  speak  to  a  colonel's  daughter. 

At  the  first  station  at  which  the  train  stopped 
several  people  got  into  our  compartment,  includ- 
ing a  short,  stout  Jew,  with  an  oily  face.  As 
soon  as  the  train  started  again  the  conductor 
came  in  to  look  at  tickets. 

"  Your  ticket  is  not  valid,"  he  said,  after  he 
had  examined  mine;  "you  must  get  out  at  the 
next  station  and  pay  a  fine  of  thirty  kopecks  and 
buy  another  ticket/' 

"  But  why  isn't  it  valid?  "  I  asked. 

"  You  broke  the  journey  between  Petrograd 
and  Varshava  at  Vilna,  and  you  neglected  to 
get  the  station-master  to  stamp  your  ticket." 

"  Does  it  really  matter?  "  I  asked. 

"  Does  it  really  matter  !  '  repeated  the  Jew 
with  the  oily  face.  "  There's  a  question  to  ask  ! 
Don't  you  know  the  rules  of  the  railway?  ' 

I  took  no  notice  of  him  and  looked  at  the 
conductor. 

"  You've  got  to  pay  the  fine,"  he  said,  "  and 
you've  got  to  get  a  new  ticket.  There's  no  help 
for  it." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  the  Jew. 

"  And  God  be  with  you,"  said  an  old  peasant- 
woman. 

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My  Slav  Friends 

And  so,  at  the  next  stopping-place,  the  con- 
ductor came  and  bundled  me  out  to  go  and  be 
punished  by  the  station-master. 

"  Thirty  kopecks/'  said  that  official.  I  gave 
him  the  money  and  he  wrote  out  a  receipt.  "  And 
now,"  he  said,  "  you  must  go  and  get  another 
ticket." 

That  I  was  determined  not  to  do.  Russians 
were  able  to  reduce  the  fiercest  tchinovniks  to 
submission  by  a  process  of  persistent  whining, 
why  should  not  I  ?  At  any  rate  I  would  try. 

"  Please  to  be  amiable,"  I  began  in  a  voice 
that  shook  with  pathos  and  servility.  "  That 
is  so  much  money  for  me  to  pay "  —the  sum 
demanded  was,  if  my  memory  serves  me,  about 
eight  shillings — "  what  am  I  to  do  if  I  have  to 
pay  so  much  money  over  again?  ' 

"  There's  not  the  slightest  use  in  arguing  about 
the  matter,"  said  the  station-master  curtly; 
>(  you've  got  to  get  another  ticket." 

"  But  please  hear  me ;  I  am  a  foreigner,  I  know 
nothing.  Four  roubles  !  a  colossal  sum  !  I  im- 
plore you  to  be  amiable." 

'  You're  only  wasting  your  time,"  said  the 
station-master,  and  I  heard  the  second  bell  ring 
to  warn  passengers  that  the  train  would  soon  be 
going. 

"How  can  I  afford  to  pay  four  roubles?"  I 
asked  the  station-master,  who  looked  at  me 
stonily.  "  I  didn't  know  that  I  had  to  get  my 
ticket  stamped  at  Vilna ;  how  should  a  foreigner 

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My  Slav   Friends 

know?  All  I  ask  you  to  do  is  to  let  me  go  on 
with  the  ticket  I  have  already  paid  for.  From 
my  heart,  and  with  the  greatest  humility,  I  ask 
you  to  be  gracious/' 

"  Very  well/'  said  the  station-master  with 
great  cordiality,  and,  although  he  did  not  move 
an  eyelash,  his  manner  was  so  charming  that  it 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was  the  gruff 
person  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  desk  when 
I  entered  the  office.  He  wrote  out  an  order  to 
the  man  at  the  ticket-office,  requesting  that  I 
should  be  provided  with  a  new  ticket  free  of  charge. 
I  overpowered  him  with  thanks,  was  upbraided 
by  the  booking  clerk  for  coming  for  a  ticket  just 
as  the  train  was  going  to  leave,  and  joined  the 
lanky  girl,  the  soldier,  the  Jew  with  the  oily 
face,  and  my  other  companions  just  as  the 
third  bell  announced  that  the  train  was  going  to 
start. 

The  Jew  was  engaged  in  eating  a  raw  herring 
and  an  onion,  which  he  held  in  his  hands.  He 
suspended  this  agreeable  occupation  when  I 
entered  the  carriage,  and  asked  me  if  I  really 
didn't  know  that  I  ought  to  have  had  my  ticket 
stamped  at  Vilna.  I  satisfied  his  curiosity,  and 
he  then  addressed  the  entire  carriage  on  the 
subject. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  waving  the  herring,  "  is  a 
man  who  didn't  know  he'd  got  to  have  his  ticket 
stamped  if  he  broke  his  journey." 

Everybody  stopped  talking  and  looked  at  me. 
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My  Slav   Friends 

"  I  put  it  to  you,"  said  the  Jew,  with  another 
eloquent  wave  of  the  herring,  "  how  can  anybody 
understand  a  man  travelling  about  and  not  knowing 
a  little  thing  like  that?  '  Then  he  subsided,  bit 
a  large  piece  out  of  the  herring,  put  a  curly  piece 
of  onion  in  his  mouth,  and,  thus  deprived  of  the 
power  of  addressing  an  extensive  audience,  turned 
to  me  with  a  string  of  questions. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  he  asked. 

!<  I  am  an  Englishman/'  I  said. 

"  And  where  do  you  live  ?  ' 

"  Petrograd,"  I  answered,  with  impious  thoughts 
of  gratitude  to  Heaven  in  my  heart  that  he  was 
not  allowed  to  live  there  too. 

"  And  how  do  you  get  your  living?  ' 

"  The  good  God  gives,"  I  said. 
'  Well,  of  course  we  all  know  that,"  he  said. 
"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  '  the  good  God  gives  '  ; 
but  that's  not  an  answer  to  the  question." 

I  smiled  at  him. 

'  You  must  have  some  definite  source  of  in- 
come," he  said,  "  and  that's  what  I'm  trying  to 
get  at." 

In  that  attempt,  however,  he  failed,  and  finally 
lapsed  into  silence  and  the  remainder  of  the 
herring. 

"  Glory  to  God  and  the  devil  take  him,"  said 
the  old  peasant-woman,  when  he  left  the  carriage. 

"  Not  sympathetic,"  said  a  benevolent-looking 
elderly  man  with  a  grey  beard,  who  sat  next  the 
old  woman  on  the  seat  opposite  me. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

"  Not  sympathetic  !  "  she  repeated,  aghast  at 
the  benevolent  man's  mildness,  "  disgusting, 
according  to  me/' 

"  Hebrew/'  I  said. 

"  Yes,  Hebrew,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  What 
people  !  '; 

"  They're  not  all  like  that,"  said  the  benevolent 
man,  looking  at  me. 

"  There's  good  and  there's  bad,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "  mostly  bad,"  and  she  sighed. 

"  I  know  they're  not  all  like  that,"  I  said, 
disregarding  the  old  woman,  who  appeared  to 
be  dropping  off  to  sleep.  "  I  know  a  young 
Hebrew  in  Petrograd,  who  is  a  very  decent  fellow, 
very  good-looking,  too,  and  quite  certain  that  he 
doesn't  look  like  a  Hebrew.  I  always  feel  so 
sorry  for  him,  because  of  course  he  does;  they 
always  do.  But  I  wouldn't  spoil  the  poor  boy's 
happiness  by  telling  him  for  anything  in  the 
world." 

"  Poor  thing  !  '  muttered  the  old  woman, 
opening  her  eyes  and  shutting  them  again. 

At  the  next  stop  of  the  leisurely  express,  the 
soldier  bought  an  apple  tart  for  the  colonel's 
daughter,  which  she  took  with  the  air  of  a  prin- 
cess receiving  a  nosegay  from  a  mayoress,  and 
he  got  out  and  filled  his  kettle  and  the  old  woman's 
kettle  from  a  gigantic  samovar  on  the  platform. 
And  I,  being  still  without  a  kettle,  drank  a 
glass  of  tea  and  ate  bread  and  sausage  in  the 
third-class  refreshment-room. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

The  old  woman  got  out  at  Bielostok  as  well  as 
the  soldier,  who  shook  hands  with  me  at  parting, 
and  the  lanky  girl  who  was  a  colonel's  daughter. 
The  town  is  a  pleasant  place,  set  in  meadows  and 
orchards,  more  Polish  than  Russian  and  more 
Jewish  than  Polish.  I  had  visited  it  some  years 
before,  when  a  large  number  of  innocent  Jews 
were  massacred  to  expiate  the  sins  of  a  small 
number  of  bad  Jews.  The  revolutionary  ardour 
of  the  bad  Jews  had  led  them  to  form  a  habit  of 
shooting  policemen.  The  murdered  policemen's 
wives  and  children  cried  their  eyes  out,  and,  when 
a  suitable  opportunity  occurred,  policemen  avenged 
their  comrades  with  the  help  of  some  soldiers  and 
the  hooligantzi  of  the  town.  The  wicked  Jews  were 
clever  persons  and  knew  how  to  keep  out  of  harm's 
way,  leaving  the  good  Jews  to  suffer.  The  re- 
spectable Christian  inhabitants,  so  the  Jews  told 
me,  took  no  part  in  the  massacre,  and  they  praised 
them  for  succouring  those  who  came  to  them  for 
protection. 

"  We  and  the  Christians  live  here  like  brothers/' 
said  the  President  of  the  Jewish  Relief  Committee. 

"  The  Jews  and  we  live  here  like  brothers," 
said  the  cure. 

In  his  church  I  thought  I  was  in  France.  It 
was  the  octave  of  the  Fete  Dieu,  and  little  girls 
in  white  dresses  were  strewing  flowers  before  the 
Host,  borne  in  procession  round  the  church  by 
the  cure,  who  walked  beneath  a  canopy. 

An  elderly  woman,  with  a  bundle  and  a  basket, 

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joined  me  and  the  benevolent  man,  just  as  the 
train  was  about  to  start. 

"  And  are  you  going  far?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  To  Varshava,"  she  said. 

It  appeared  that  she  was  going  to  see  her 
daughter,  who  had  left  an  excellent  place  in  the 
household  of  a  countess  to  marry  a  grocer,  where- 
by she  had  acquired  a  magnificent  fur  cloak  and 
several  splendid  dresses,  the  property  of  a  former 
wife  of  the  grocer's,  besides  an  admirable  husband. 

"  Are  you  Russian  or  Polish?'  I  asked  the 
elderly  woman. 

"  Catholic,"  she  replied. 

"  And  you  are  Russian,  are  you  not?  "  I  said, 
turning  to  the  benevolent  man. 

ff  No,  I  am  Hebrew,"  he  answered. 

And  when  he  said  that,  remembering  the 
remarks  I  had  made  about  a  Jewish  acquaintance 
in  Petrograd,  I  felt  so  embarrassed  that  I  wished 
I  could  disappear  beneath  the  floor  of  the  carriage. 

"  Didn't   you   realize   that    I    was   Hebrew?' 
asked  the  benevolent  man. 

"  No,  I  certainly  did  not,"  I  answered. 

He  beamed  at  me.  The  colour  came  into  the 
patch  of  face  between  his  beard  and  his  eyes. 
His  manner  became  so  cordial,  he  talked  at  such 
length,  that  I  was  glad  when  he  got  out.  Poor 
man  ! 

And  when  he  had  gone,  I  dozed  the  rest  of  the 
way  to  Varshava. 

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CHAPTER  XIV 

"  VARSHAVA,"  said  a  railway  porter  in  a  long 
blouse,  poking  his  head  in  at  the  door  of  the 
railway-carriage . 

Had  he  recognized  that  I  was  an  Englishman, 
he  would  possibly  have  said  Warsaw;  for,  being 
a  Pole,  he  was  the  soul  of  courtesy  and  had 
exquisite  manners.  But  possibly  he  had  never 
heard  that  hideous  name,  which  the  Germans, 
who  call  the  Polish  capital  Warschau,  have 
taught  us.  Let  us  forget  the  ugly  thing  and 
give  the  city  the  beautiful  name  used  by  Poles 
and  Russians  alike.  The  Poles  spell  it  like  this — 
Warszawa.  They  use  Latin  letters,  as  we  do, 
but  their  system  of  spelling  is  different.  And 
our  system  is  as  puzzling  to  them  as  theirs  is 
to  us.  Being  sensible  people,  they  spell  foreign 
names  phonetically.  Shakespeare  becomes  Szek- 
spir  and  Victoria  becomes  Wiktorja.  Let  us 
adopt  the  same  plan  and  write  the  beautiful 
name  of  a  beautiful  city  in  our  own  way.  Then 
Warszawa  becomes  Varshava — put  the  stress  on 
the  second  syllable,  which  rhymes  with  the 
Persian  Shah,  and  you  will  pronounce  the  word 
as  well  as  any  Pole  or  Russian.  And  if  you  have 
any  love  for  the  music  of  words  you  will  eschew 

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My  Slav  Friends 

in  the  future  the  name  derived  from  the  language 
of  our  enemies.  At  the  least,  I  beg  leave  to  pay 
this  little  courtesy  to  our  Allies. 

The  polite  porter  found  the  portmanteaux, 
which  I  had  sent  in  advance  from  Petrograd, 
where  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  abandon  the 
artificiality  of  a  simple  life  in  a  Russian  blouse 
as  soon  as  I  arrived  in  Varshava. 

"  In  Europe  again/'  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  drove 
away  from  the  station  in  a  cab,  like  a  Paris  fiacre, 
with  a  driver  on  the  box  in  a  dark  blue  livery, 
ornamented  with  shining  buttons,  which  might 
in  its  youth  have  been  worn  by  a  London  coach- 
man. 

The  creature  who  had  driven  me  to  the  station 
in  Petrograd  was  in  a  long  robe,  like  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  a  flaming  girdle.  He  belonged  to  the 
East,  to  a  people  whose  culture  came  to  them, 
together  with  their  religion,  from  Constantinople, 
when  Constantinople  was  a  Christian  city.  The 
Polish  cabman  belonged  to  the  West,  to  a 
nation  whose  civilization  and  religion  had  their 
source  in  Rome  and  whose  capital  was  stirred 
by  the  mighty  intellectual  movements  which 
have  moulded  the  character  of  the  peoples  of 
the  West.  When  the  citizens  of  Moscow  were 
convinced  that  the  path  to  hell  was  strewn 
with  Latin  grammars,  and  held  that  a  journey 
to  foreign  parts  was  a  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost,  the  people  of  Varshava  were  sending 
their  sons  to  study  at  the  Italian  universities, 

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My  Slav   Friends 

whence  the  glory  of  the  Renaissance  came  to 
the  Polish  capital  and  made  its  scholars  fastidious 
writers  of  Latin.  The  Reformation  found  no 
echo  in  Moscow.  In  Varshava  the  new  German 
doctrines  of  religion  were  accepted  almost  as 
readily  as  in  England.  The  ability  of  the  clergy 
prevented  their  permanent  adoption,  but  there 
was  a  time  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  city  would 
become  a  centre  of  Protestantism.  Exposed  to 
the  same  influences  that  have  been  deployed  on 
us,  the  Poles  are  more  closely  related  to  us  than 
the  Russians.  The  Slav  nature,  fined  in  the 
sieve  of  Latin  civilization,  has  a  charm  to  which 
it  is  impossible  not  to  be  sensible. 

I  love  the  domes  and  golden  crosses  of  the 
cities  of  Russia;  but  I  have  been  bred  in  the 
West,  and,  when  I  am  in  Russia,  there  always 
comes  a  time  when  I  hanker  for  Western  sights 
and  Western  sounds.  I  sat  behind  the  coachman 
of  the  Polish  cab,  staring  at  the  silver  buttons 
on  the  tails  of  his  coat  as  symbols  of  the  West, 
and  the  sight  of  the  rosy  towers  of  the  great 
Gothic  church  of  St.  Florian  made  my  heart  beat 
quicker.  A  woman  passing  the  church,  crossed 
herself,  making  the  sign  from  left  to  right,  as  our 
St.  Thomas  or  Henry  VIII  might  have  done,  as 
they  do  in  France  and  Italy,  as  they  do  in  England, 
when  they  cross  themselves  at  all.  Enfin,  I  was 
in  Europe  again. 

In  the  Krakovsky  the  lamps  were  lit  and 
there  were  carriages  and  slim,  upright  Poles, 

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My  Slav  Friends 

with   the  brisk   air  of  Englishmen,  and  women 
who  walk  more  beautifully  than  any  women  in 
Europe.    I  thought  of  dreamy  music,  which  Liszt 
called   Soirees   de   Varsovie,  and  wondered  how 
I   should  pass    the   evening.     Vladislav   decided 
the  question  for  me.     I  met  him  in  the  hall  of 
the  Hotel  Bristol,  where  one  meets  most  people, 
and  he  decided  that  I  was  to  go  to  his  club,  a 
place,   he  said,   frequented  by  people  interested 
in   politics.     I    resigned   myself   to   the   idea    of 
spending    the    evening    in    a    leather    armchair, 
engaged    in    serious    conversation    with    serious 
persons,  and  accepted  his  invitation.     And  when 
Vladislav  had  gone  away,  promising  to  come  for 
me  at  nine,   I  talked  to  a  quietly-dressed  Jew 
with   an   agreeable   manner,    who   was   drinking 
a  whisky  and  soda  and  had  been   kind  enough 
to  pass  the  time  of  day.     He  claimed  to  be  of 
British    descent,  and   fumbled   to    discover  who 
and  what  I  was.     I  told  him  frankly  that  I  wrote 
for  newspapers,  and  he  immediately  offered  me 
particulars  of  an  important  scheme  to  drain  the 
Pripet  marshes,  which  he  said  anybody  with  such 
talent,  as  it  was  evident  that  I  possessed,  could 
fashion    into    an    entrancing    article.     I    showed 
no   enthusiasm   for   the   draining   of   the   Pripet 
marshes,  and  he  began  to  talk  about  a  fascinating 
creature  of  his  acquaintance,  who  adored  English- 
men, indeed  I  was  the  particular  type  of  English- 
man she  adored  above  all  others.     It  happened, 
oddly  enough,  to  be  the  very  hour  at  which  she 

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My  Slav   Friends 

was  accustomed  to  drink  chocolate  in  the  ad- 
joining cafe.  But  in  view  of  the  unparalleled 
charms  she  appeared  to  possess,  prudence,  if 
nothing  else,  forbade  me  to  concur  in  the  gentle- 
man's amiable  suggestion  that  it  might  be  agree- 
able to  drink  a  bock  in  her  company. 

Vladislav  arrived  half  an  hour  late,  and  when 
we  got  to  his  club  he  said  that,  as  I  was  an  English- 
man and  therefore  devoted  to  sport,  we  had  better 
look  at  the  gymnasts.  Thereupon  he  led  me  to 
a  hall  in  which  some  sixty  members  of  his  club 
were  performing  the  most  amazing  feats.  Few 
of  them  were  young;  but  they  bore  their  years 
easily,  and  their  slim  figures  were  displayed  in 
white  vests  and  tights.  Their  bodies  seemed  to 
have  the  elasticity  of  practised  acrobats,  and 
when  they  ended  a  complicated  gymnastic  figure 
by  standing  on  one  another's  shoulders,  I  felt 
certain  that  a  capable  music-hall  manager  would 
have  offered  the  entire  troupe  an  engagement  on 
the  spot.  As  most  of  them  were  middle-class 
persons,  and  also  nobles,  they  would  certainly 
have  declined  the  most  brilliant  offer.  Almost 
all  the  well-mannered  men  one  meets  in  Poland 
are  nobles,  and  they  find  it  difficult  to  understand 
how  it  is  that  an  English  acquaintance,  whose 
education  and  manners  are  not  inferior  to  their 
own,  should  be  no  more  than  a  commoner.  There 
are,  however,  nobles  and  nobles ;  as  a  great  lady 
put  it :  "  We  distinguish  between  the  nobility 
and  the  aristocracy." 

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My  Slav   Friends 

The  Pole  may  not  play  cricket  and  may  regard 
football  as  an  innovation;  but  he  loves  to  exer- 
cise his  body,  and  is  as  keen  a  sportsman  as 
an  Englishman.  Men  of  the  town,  as  I  saw 
in  Vladislav's  club,  practise  the  daring  feats  of 
gymnastics  which  are  encouraged  by  the  athletic 
clubs  of  Bohemian  provenance,  called  Sokols 
or  Falcons.  In  the  country  men  ride  and  shoot 
for  pleasure  and  from  necessity.  What  Polish 
gentleman  thinks  twice  before  riding  twenty  miles 
to  dine  with  a  neighbour? 

In  the  billiard-room  of  the  club,  provided  with 
French  tables,  Vladislav  presented  me  to  a  wiry 
little  man  with  a  jerky  manner  and  an  auburn 
beard,  telling  him  that  I  was  an  Englishman  and 
interested  in  the  Polish  question. 

"  Enchante,"  said  the  little  man;  "  you  will 
be  so  charming  as  to  have  supper  with  me." 

I  thanked  him  suitably  and  declined  the  in- 
vitation on  the  ground  that  I  had  just  dined. 

"  But  what  difference  does  that  make?"  he 
asked. 

"  You  really  can't  refuse,"  said  Vladislav  in 
English. 

"I'll  just  go  and  collect  a  few  friends  to  join 
us,"  said  the  little  man  brightly,  and  ran  away 
without  giving  me  an  opportunity  of  protesting 
again. 

A  minute  later  a  waiter  came  to  me  with  a 
message.  Did  I  desire  to  drink  dry  wines  or  sweet 
wines?  Thanking  Heaven  for  its  mercy,  I  gave 

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My  Slav  Friends 

the  only  answer  an  Englishman  would  give,  and 
presently  the  little  man  came  to  fetch  us. 

There  were  two  other  guests,  elderly  men  of  a 
build  that  made  me  certain  that  they  did  not  take 
part  in  the  violent  exercises  of  the  upper  storey. 

"  Now  what  would  you  like?  "  said  the  host, 
handing  me  a  complicated  bill-of-fare.  "  You 
have  only  to  say,"  he  added  superbly. 

"  Give  me  nothing  but  Polish  dishes,"  I  said, 
pluming  myself  on  the  beautiful  spirit  in  which 
I  was  entering  the  path  of  self -sacrifice. 

11  Un  cognac,  n'est-ce  pas?'  said  the  little 
man,  filling  our  glasses,  and  he  gave  us  a  toast. 

"  The  Holy  Father !  "  he  cried. 

"  The  Holy  Father  !  "  said  the  others  solemnly, 
raising  their  glasses.  And  as  that  excellent  brandy 
slipped  down  my  throat,  I  wondered  whether 
the  saintly  Pius  would  not  have  preferred  us  to 
drink  his  health  in  water;  for  the  old  injunction, 
bibamus  papaliter,  is  now  no  better  than  a  dismal 
counsel  of  asceticism. 

"  No  more  for  me,"  I  said,  as  the  host  began 
to  fill  our  glasses  again. 

"  Comment?  "  he  cried.  "  But  surely  you  are 
not  going  to  refuse  to  drink  to  the  health  of  the 
King  of  England?  ' 

And  loyalty  compelled  me  to  empty  another 
little  glass. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  host  very  solemnly, 
busily  filling  the  glasses  once  more,  "  I  ask  you 
to  drink  to  the  Autonomy  of  Poland." 

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My  Slav  Friends 


And  for  nothing  in  the  world  would  I  have 
refused  to  drink  that  toast. 

The  four  Poles  ate  beefsteaks,  but  a  waiter 
put  before  me  a  dish  of  exceedingly  rich  and  com- 
plicated food,  balls  of  mincemeat  and  vegetables 
floating  in  a  spiced  sauce.  The  host  assured  me 
that  this  was  a  typical  Polish  dish,  and  gave  me 
a  generous  helping.  My  heart  sank. 

"  Now  this/'  he  said,  taking  up  a  bottle  of 
claret,  "  is  a  French  wine,  which  I  think  you  will 
appreciate/'  and  he  filled  my  glass. 

I  was  struggling  with  that  complicated  Polish 
dish,  and  when  the  others  were  engaged  by  Vladi- 
slav, who  was  telling  a  good  tale,  I  managed  to 
put  a  considerable  part  of  the  contents  of  my 
plate  back  on  the  dish.  An  instant  later  I  saw 
that  hospitable  little  man  look  anxiously  at  me. 

"  But  you  have  nothing,"  he  said,  and  put  all 
that  mess  of  mincemeat  and  sauce,  which  I  had 
so  happily  discarded,  back  on  my  plate. 

There  is  a  well-known  practice  in  academies 
for  young  ladies  of  dropping  surreptitious  morsels 
of  bread-and-butter  pudding  and  other  disagree- 
able foods  into  useful  table-napkins.  To  that 
base  device  I  was  forced  to  resort. 

The  others  contented  themselves  with  one 
dish;  but  it  was  considered  proper  that  I,  as  the 
guest  of  honour,  should  have  two.  I  thought 
of  St.  Sebastian  in  the  play  shouting  encore, 
encore,  when  the  archers  paused  in  their  task 
of  shooting  arrows  at  him,  and  realized  my 

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My  Slav   Friends 

imperfection  as  I  continued  to  deceive.  Tokay 
was  handed  round,  a  favourite  wine  in  Poland,  and 
usually  bad.  Experts  say  that  little  good  tokay 
is  made  now,  and  tell  tales  of  great  flagons  that 
are  kept  in  the  cellars  of  great  houses  and  only 
broached  at  a  christening  or  a  wedding. 

The  cognac  and  the  French  wine  and  the  tokay 
being  finished,  Vladislav  remarked  to  me  in 
English,  which  the  others  did  not  understand, 
that  it  was  up  to  us  to  invite  them  to  drink  a 
bottle  of  champagne.  I  nodded  and  he  ordered 
the  wine.  It  was  sweet,  and  as  I  drank  to  the 
health  of  those  nice,  elderly  professional  men, 
who  had,  all  of  them,  spent  youthful  days  in 
prison  to  expiate  harmless  acts  of  patriotic  fervour 
—they  smiled  happily  as  they  spoke  of  prison, 
like  men  who  tell  one  what  young  devils  they 
were  when  they  were  young — I  realized  that  the 
sacrifices  to  politeness,  religion,  loyalty  and  free- 
dom, which  I  had  already  made,  were  complete. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
I  left  the  club,  after  talking  with  a  number  of 
agreeable  men.  There  were  protests,  but  I  in- 
sisted on  going  home,  was  followed  to  the  door 
by  a  crowd  of  clubmen,  and  got  into  a  cab. 
Several  persons,  whom  I  did  not  recognize,  also 
got  into  the  cab,  and  two  men  stood  on  the  steps, 
clinging  on  as  best  they  could.  Away  we  went, 
whirled  through  several  streets,  and  stopped  at 
a  house  which  was  not  my  hotel.  Behind  was 
a  line  of  cabs,  all  crammed  with  clubmen. 

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My   Slav  Friends 

"  Come  along/'  said  Vladislav,  dashing  up 
from  nowhere,  "  we  are  all  going  in  here.  You 
simply  must  come." 

"  In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,"  I  said  to  myself, 
and  followed  him  into  the  house. 

It  was  a  restaurant.  We  were  shown  to  an 
enormous  private  room,  with  a  long  table  on 
which  were  dishes  of  caviare  and  other  snacks. 
Waiters  brought  in  a  small  barrel  of  beer  and 
bottles  of  champagne. 

My  host  had  disappeared,  and  I  found  that  we 
were  being  entertained,  some  fifty  of  us,  by  a 
portly  Count,  badly  dressed  in  a  grey  suit  and 
artificial  cuffs. 

"  Musicians  !  '  he  cried.  "  We  must  have 
musicians,"  and  the  waiters  hurried  into  the  room 
an  attenuated  fiddler  and  a  weary-looking  pianist. 
They  began  to  play  a  vigorous  mazurka. 

Off  flew  the  Count,  dancing  down  the  room 
with  an  elderly  man,  who  had  the  air  of  a  pro- 
fessor at  an  university.  And  in  a  twinkling  all 
those  fifty  serious  men  were  running  about  the 
room  in  the  breathless,  hurrying,  rushing  measure 
that  they  say  nobody  who  has  not  Slav  blood 
in  his  veins  can  dance. 

"  Champagne  !  '  cried  somebody  and  filled 
my  glass.  In  the  whirl  and  helter-skelter  round 
me  I  discreetly  tipped  most  of  the  wine  upon 
the  floor. 

The  musicians  played  a  languid  waltz,  which 
I  danced  with  one  of  the  waiters. 

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My  Slav   Friends 

Pop  went  the  champagne  corks. 

"  But  what  is  this?  "  said  the  host,  floating 
up  to  me  with  a  bottle;  "  it  is  terrible,  it  is 
horrifying,  your  glass  is  almost  empty/'  and  he 
filled  it  up. 

My  conscience  still  pricks  me  when  I  think  of 
that  second  glass  of  excellent  wine  which  was 
spilt  upon  the  floor. 

The  Count,  who  had  got  so  hot  in  dancing 
mazurkas  and  waltzes  that  he  had  taken  off  his 
coat,  went  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  long 
table  and  raised  his  hand  for  silence.  In  an 
instant  the  hubbub  ceased,  and  the  revellers 
became  as  silent  and  as  serious  as  if  they  had  been 
in  a  church.  The  Count  began  to  speak.  He 
spoke  with  sufficient  deliberation  to  allow  me  to 
follow  his  speech.  His  theme  was  the  sufferings 
of  Poland,  the  duty  incumbent  on  every  Pole 
to  work  for  her  deliverance,  and  the  glory  of  her 
future.  He  spoke  with  great  simplicity  and  his 
speech  was  short,  but  its  effect  was  profound. 
The  listeners  hung  on  his  words,  and,  when  he 
had  done,  they  shook  his  hand  and  went  away 
silently. 

The  champagne,  the  music,  the  dancing,  had 
been  an  excuse  for  a  meeting  in  which  expression 
could  be  given  to  aspirations  and  convictions 
which  could  not  be  proclaimed  from  the  platform 
or  in  the  press.  And  in  the  necessity  of  that 
subterfuge  to  cheat  the  police,  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  tragedy  of  Poland. 

272 


My  Slav  Friends 


It  would,  however,  be  a  mistake  to  think  that 
those  patriots  did  not  enjoy  the  revelry  that 
masked  a  political  gathering.  The  rapidity  with 
which  Poles  can  pass  from  one  mood  to  another 
is  one  of  their  distinguishing  characteristics.  In 
our  own  country  we  are  inclined  to  dub  one  man 
serious  and  another  gay,  and  to  be  surprised  if 
they  do  not  consistently  maintain  the  character 
we  have  attributed  to  them.  The  Poles  are  not 
to  be  labelled  in  this  way,  and  I  think  that  one 
of  the  secrets  of  the  charm  of  the  Polish  women 
and  of  the  profound  influence  they  exercise  on  the 
life  of  the  nation  is  their  ability  to  be  intensely 
serious  and  intensely  gay. 

One  day  I  was  taken  to  call  at  a  Polish  country 
house.  The  hostess  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
spoke  both  French  and  English  perfectly.  She 
talked  about  her  children,  about  the  infants' 
school  she  had  established  in  the  village,  about 
English  politics.  There  were  new  books  from 
France  and  England  on  the  tables  in  her  drawing- 
room.  Her  knowledge,  her  earnestness  and  the 
restfulness  of  her  manner  impressed  me. 

"  It  was  a  love-match,  you  know/'  said  the 
friend  who  had  taken  me  to  the  house,  as  we 
drove  away.  "  Her  people  did  not  like  her 
marrying  the  Count,  because  their  family  is 
much  older  than  his,  and  with  her  beauty  and 
charm,  and  fortune  too,  she  might  have  made 
a  much  better  marriage.  However,  she  showed 
great  determination,  and  she  is  still  in  love  with 
T  273 


My  Slav   Friends 

her  husband,  although  they  have  been  married 
at  least  a  dozen  years  and  have  five  children." 

A  few  days  later  I  met  that  beautiful  and 
tranquil  woman  in  Varshava.  She  was  supping 
with  her  husband  and  another  man  in  one  of 
the  fashionable  restaurants,  and  she  looked  very 
smart  and  very  young  in  an  exceedingly  simple 
black  dress  and  a  hat  with  a  garland  of  roses  set 
at  a  jaunty  angle.  A  Polish  friend  and  I  joined 
the  party.  The  Countess  was  animated;  she 
laughed  and  said  witty  things  and  was  almost 
frivolous.  She  made  us  all  gay. 

'  We  are  going  to  have  a  thoroughly  good 
time  this  evening/'  said  her  husband.  "  You'd 
better  all  of  you  come  over  to  the  Hotel  d'  Europe 
with  us/' 

And  to  the  Hotel  d' Europe  we  went,  and 
champagne  and  peaches  were  brought  to  a  large 
private  room  with  a  polished  floor.  Musicians 
came,  a  pianist,  a  violoncellist,  an  old  fiddler. 
They  began  to  play  a  mazurka,  and  the  Countess 
tripped  down  the  room  with  one  of  her  guests, 
who  clicked  his  heels  together  in  the  mad  rush 
of  the  dance.  Then  she  waltzed  with  her  husband, 
and  as  they  danced,  the  old  fiddler  followed  them 
round  the  room.  He  made  the  measure  of  the 
dance  quick  and,  perhaps  it  was  when  he  saw 
the  dancers  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  his 
playing  became  languorous.  And  those  two 
danced  together  like  a  boy  and  a  girl  who  have 
just  fallen  in  love. 

274 


My  Slav  Friends 


Now  did  the  Countess  really  care  for  champagne 
and  dancing  in  a  cabinet  particulier  P  or  was  she 
a  consummate  actress  determined  to  please  her 
husband  ?  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  know  that 
no  women  in  the  world  are  as  skilful  in  keeping 
an  empire  over  the  fickle  hearts  of  the  men  they 
love  as  the  Polish  women.  People  marvel  that 
the  Poles,  parcelled  out  among  three  emperors, 
remain  a  united  nation.  To  know  the  Polish 
women  is  to  cease  to  marvel  at  this  phenomenon. 
The  secret  of  the  unity  of  Poland  is  the  charm 
of  the  Polish  women.  When  the  men  are  down- 
cast and  inclined  to  give  up  hope,  it  is  they  who 
inspire  them  and  refuse  to  contemplate  the  final 
defeat  of  their  aims.  It  is  they  who  instil  the 
passion  for  the  Polish  cause,  "which  animates 
them,  into  the  souls  of  their  children.  An  old 
Polish  lady,  very  gentle,  very  simple,  made  me 
understand  in  a  flash  how  intense  that  passion 
is.  I  was  talking  about  her  son,  who  lived  abroad 
with  his  wife,  a  Frenchwoman  who  had  been 
unable  to  master  the  Polish  language. 

"  Have  they  any  children?  "  I  asked. 

"Thank  God,  no,"  said  the  old  lady.  And 
there  was  such  intensity  of  feeling  in  her  voice 
that  I  realized  that  the  thought  of  her  son  having 
children  who  would  be  brought  up  in  a  foreign 
atmosphere  and  with  foreign  ideas  was  unbearable 
to  her. 

The  day  after  the  supper  with  Vladislav,  I 
lunched  at  an  hotel  with  Roman  Dmowski,  the 

275 


My  Slav   Friends 

leader  of  the  National  Democratic  Party,  which 
advocates  a  policy  of  sober,  but  not  extravagant, 
reform.  He  directed  the  policy  of  the  Polish 
group  in  the  Imperial  Duma  for  a  time,  and  only 
gave  up  his  work  in  Petrograd,  where  he  had 
displayed  consummate  political  talent,  when  he 
found  that  he  could  further  the  Polish  cause  more 
effectively  by  activities  in  the  kingdom  of  Poland 
itself.  His  book,  La  Question  Polonaise,  to  which 
the  late  M.  Leroy  Beaulieu  contributed  a  valuable 
introduction,  should  be  read  by  anybody  who 
desires  to  understand  the  Polish  problem. 

"  Have  some  eau-de-Cologne/'  he  said,  when 
we  were  washing  our  hands  before  going  into 
the  restaurant.  "  I  always  use  Atkinson's/'  he 
added. 

"Do  you?'  I  said,  without  thinking.  "I 
always  get  Jean  Maria  Farina's." 

"  I  never  use  it,"  he  said  curtly. 

It  was  the  politician  and  the  patriot  speaking, 
and  not  the  man  of  the  world  who  had  the  air  of 
a  well-set-up  Englishman. 

There  was  one  of  those  little  indications,  which 
I  have  often  had  cause  to  remark  in  Poland, 
of  the  detestation  in  which  the  Poles  held  the 
Germans.  The  measure  of  that  hatred  is  the 
unity  that  now  exists  between  the  Poles  and 
the  Russians;  for  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that 
the  relations  between  the  two  races  were  good 
before  the  war.  I  have  no  inclination  to  recall  the 
past  errors  of  the  Russian  Tsars  in  their  treat- 

276 


My  Slav  Friends 

ment  of  the  Polish  nation;  it  is  sufficient  to  say 
that  a  parallel  may  easily  be  established  between 
the  methods  adopted  by  the  Russians  to  crush  the 
Polish  people  and  those  adopted  by  the  English 
to  crush  the  Irish  nation.  It  may  be  added  that 
the  employment  of  those  methods  in  the  past  is 
regretted  by  Russians  now  as  much  as  it  is  by 
Englishmen.  And  perhaps  the  regret  of  the 
Russians  is  more  bitter  than  ours,  because  they 
have  only  just  recognized  the  folly  of  their  policy 
and  we  began  to  change  our  policy  years  ago. 
Thus  the  attitude  of  the  Poles  to  the  Russians 
has  been  similar  to  that  of  the  Irish  to  the  English. 
One  important  difference  in  the  situation  must, 
however,  be  borne  in  mind  :  in  Poland  the  landed 
gentry  are  in  sympathy  with  the  aspirations  of 
the  middle  classes  and  the  peasantry,  whereas  in 
Ireland  this  is  not  as  a  rule  the  case. 

''  Remember,  you  are  only  allowed  to  talk 
Russian  because  you  are  a  foreigner/'  said  my 
hostess  to  me  one  day  in  a  Polish  country 
house,  when  the  vicar,  who  could  talk  Russian 
and  could  not  talk  French,  happened  to  be  at 
luncheon. 

'  The  Poles  are  charming  people  and  most 
highly  cultivated,"  said  the  Russian  general  who 
commanded  the  Citadel  of  Varshava  to  me,  "  but 
as  they  can't  talk  Russian  and  we  can't  talk 
Polish,  we  see  nothing  of  one  another/' 

His  explanation  of  the  position  was  more  in- 
genious than  correct,  for  the  difference  of  language 

277 


My  Slav  Friends 

is  not  a  bar  to  intercourse  between  people  who 
speak  French  as  well  as  they  do  their  native 
languages.  But  the  general's  remark,  together 
with  that  of  the  Polish  lady,  suffice  to  show  that 
the  relations  of  the  Poles  and  Russians  before 
the  war  were,  to  say  the  least,  strained.  Con- 
ceive of  this  hostility  intensified  a  thousand 
degrees  and  you  will  have  some  faint  conception 
of  the  hatred  that  the  Poles  have  for  the  Germans. 
"  As  long  as  the  sun  is  the  sun,"  says  a  Polish 
proverb,  "a  Pole  will  never  love  a  German." 

I  took  as  the  text  of  these  reflections  a  trifling 
remark  made  by  a  great  politician.  And  I  do 
not  think  I  was  wrong ;  for  it  is  often  the  uncon- 
sidered  trivialities  of  conversation  that  show  with 
greater  clarity  a  man's  inmost  thoughts  than  do 
his  formal  statements.  Let  me  quote  a  woman  in 
the  same  sense.  She  was  a  great  lady  and  her 
husband  had  an  estate  in  Prussian  Poland. 

"  My  dear,  what  do  you  think  happened  the 
other  day?  "  I  heard  her  say  to  a  lady  with 
whom  I  was  staying  in  Russian  Poland.  "  I 
was  walking  in  the  park,  when  a  whole  brake- 
load  of  Germans  drove  in  and  they  stopped  me 
to  ask  if  they  could  go  over  the  chateau.  Of 
course  they  couldn't  speak  Polish,  and — would 
you  believe  it  ? — not  one  of  them  could  speak 
French.  Naturally  I  was  not  going  to  talk 
German  with  them,  so  they  had  to  go  off  without 
an  answer." 

Petty?  Certainly  not.  The  mistress  of  the 
278 


My  Slav   Friends 

chateau  was  no  more  petty  in  her  refusal  to  talk 
German  with  Germans  than  a  daughter  would 
be  were  she  to  refuse  to  talk  with  the  members 
of  a  family  who  had  insulted  and  persecuted  her 
mother. 

On  the  ancient  town  hall  of  Poznan — we  have 
been  taught  by  our  enemies  to  call  the  town 
Posen,  but  I  refuse  to  defile  the  pages  of  this  book 
again  by  using  that  German  name  for  a  Polish 
city — there  was  set  the  heraldic  sign  of  Poland, 
an  eagle,  carved  in  stone.  Came  a  day  when 
German  workmen  were  sent  to  hack  at  the  eagle 
with  their  tools,  in  order  to  give  it  the  form  of 
the  imperial  eagle  of  Germany.  The  mutilated 
eagle  stands  as  a  symbol  of  the  policy  of  Prussia 
in  her  Polish  possessions.  In  spite  of  definite 
promises  made  by  Prussia  at  the  Congress  of 
Vienna,  in  1815,  to  respect  the  nationality  of  the 
Poles,  to  assure  to  them  the  maintenance  of 
their  language,  to  give  to  Poles  the  preference 
in  filling  public  appointments  in  the  Polish  ter- 
ritories of  Prussia,  the  creation  of  the  German 
empire  was  followed  by  a  policy  designed  to 
transform  the  Poles  into  Germans  At  first  this 
policy  was  carried  out  within  the  limits,  although 
against  the  spirit,  of  existing  laws.  In  1885 
more  vigorous  measures  were  adopted.  Thirty 
thousand  Poles,  who  were  not  subjects  of  Prussia, 
were  driven  from  their  homes,  where  many  of 
them  had  lived  since  childhood,  and  sent  across 
the  frontier.  This  measure  was  intended  by 

279 


My  Slav  Friends 


Bismarck  to  be  a  blow  against  the  spiritual 
unity  of  the  Polish  nation ;  but  the  brutality 
with  which  it  was  carried  out  moved  even  the 
Reichstag  to  indignation,  and  its  members  passed 
a  resolution  condemning  the  expulsion  "as  un- 
just and  detrimental  to  the  interests  of  the 
empire/'  The  resolution  of  the  Reichstag  had 
no  effect. 

'  We  can' do  nothing  here/'  said  Prince  Radzi- 
will,  leader  of  the  Polish  party  in  the  Reichstag, 
to  me  in  1912.  "  It  is  the  Prussian  Landtag  which 
controls  Polish  affairs/'  he  added. 

And  in  1886  it  was  the  Prussian  Landtag  that 
empowered  the  Government  to  expend  an  enor- 
mous sum  in  buying  Polish  lands  in  order  to  settle 
German  peasants  on  them.  Nearly  a  thousand 
million  marks  have  been  spent  for  this  purpose. 
In  Poznan  one  may  see  a  magnificent  building  in 
which  the  German  officials  employed  in  wresting 
Polish  lands  from  Polish  owners  are  housed.  A 
Frenchman  once  gave  the  Poles  a  sound  piece 
of  advice;  "  enrichez  vous,"  he  said.  Across 
the  Atlantic  Poles  were  making  money  and  they 
sent  it  home  to  be  used  in  defeating  the  German 
land-grabbers.  And  the  Poles  at  home,  admirably 
organized,  began  to  buy  the  lands  of  German 
proprietors  in  Poznania  and  they  bought  out  the 
Germans  a  little  faster  than  the  Germans  bought 
out  them,  until  the  Government  realized  that  it 
was  throwing  money  into  a  bottomless  hole,  and, 
in  1896,  reserved  to  itself  the  right  of  acquiring 

280 


My  Slav  Friends 


land  that  German  colonists  desired  to  sell.  Still 
the  colonization  scheme  cost  more  than  it  was 
worth ;  so  in  1907  the  Landtag  obeyed  its  Prussian 
masters  and  passed  a  law  forbidding  the  erection 
of  buildings  without  official  authorization.  In 
practice  Germans  always  received  authorization 
to  build  and  it  was  constantly  denied  to  Poles. 
The  stubborn  Polish  peasants  defeated  the  law 
by  living  in  wagons  like  gipsies  or  burrowing 
in  the  earth.  In  1912  a  Pole  bought  a  windmill 
and  the  field  in  which  it  stood,  and  sought  per- 
mission to  build  a  house  for  himself,  his  wife, 
and  their  eleven  children.  Permission  was  refused. 
Now  the  Pole,  who  had  been  putting  by  money 
for  years,  while  working  in  a  town,  in  order  to 
settle  in  the  country  with  his  family,  was  deter- 
mined not  to  be  defeated  by  the  German  authori- 
ties. He  made  a  dug-out,  in  which  he  housed 
himself  and  his  wife  and  his  eleven  children.  For 
aught  I  know,  they  may  be  still  living  there. 
Thwarted  at  every  step  by  the  Poles,  the  Prussian 
Government,  determined  to  stick  at  nothing, 
carried  a  bill  through  the  Landtag  in  1908  pro- 
viding for  the  forcible  expropriation  of  Polish 
estates. 

"  The  principle  of  that  measure  is  too  dan- 
gerous/' said  Herr  von  Gottberg,  a  typical  Prus- 
sian junker  and  a  noted  contributor  to  the 
Lokalanzeiger ,  to  me  early  in  1912.  "  It  pro- 
vides the  socialists  with  an  excellent  argument 
for  the  expropriation  of  Prussian  estates  on 

281 


My  Slav  Friends 


economic  grounds.  The  law  has  never  been 
carried  into  effect  and  it  never  will  be  carried 
into  effect/' 

And  Herr  von  Gottberg  was  wrong.  In  October 
1912  four  Polish  landowners  were  informed  that 
their  estates  were  to  be  purchased  by  the  Royal 
Commission.  Useless  to  protest,  useless  to  argue. 
There  was  no  other  course  but  to  obey  and 
to  take  the  sum  at  which  the  commissioners 
were  pleased  to  set  the  value  of  the  land. 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  Poles  hate  the  nation 
that  is  slowly  crushing  them  out  of  existence  ? 
Did  I  not  say,  at  the  beginning  of  this  book,  that 
I  might  have  to  take  you  out  of  Russia  into 
Prussia,  in  order  to  explain  why  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  men  in  all  Poland  refused  to  put  one 
single  drop  of  German  eau-de-Cologne  on  his 
pocket-handkerchief  ?  And  who,  in  such  circum- 
stances, will  accuse  the  mistress  of  the  Polish 
chateau  of  pettiness  if  she  cannot  make  Polish 
lips  frame  the  German  words  of  the  assassins  of 
her  people  ?  Perhaps,  hoping  against  hope,  she 
and  her  husband  were  among  the  Polish  nobles 
who  went  to  a  reception  given  by  the  Kaiser  the 
last  time  he  was  in  Poznan.  Was  it  surprising 
that  the  shopkeepers  and  the  business-men  and 
the  workmen  of  the  town  stood  in  the  streets 
and  hissed  at  the  nobles,  as  their  carriages  passed 
on  the  way  to  the  castle?  That  they  misjudged 
the  nobles  is  certain,  but  their  instinct  was  sure. 
They  knew  that  William  II  was  the  arch-enemy 

282 


My  Slav   Friends 


of  Poland  and  that  no  show  of  friendliness  would 
mollify  him.  And  did  he  not  make  a  speech  in 
Poznan  that  day,  and,  ignoring  the  Polish  nation, 
express  the  hope  that  Poznan  might  ever  be  a 
centre  of  German  kultur  ? 

I  have  dealt  with  one  aspect  of  German  policy 
in  Poland.  A  word  about  the  attack  on  the 
language  of  the  Poles.  That  beautiful  and 
vigorous  tongue  has  been  attacked  in  Russia, 
but  the  Russians  had  at  least  the  excuse,  a  bad 
and  wretched  excuse,  I  am  aware,  that  the  Poles 
had  twice  risen  in  rebellion.  The  Germans,  on 
the  other  hand,  had  not  even  the  shadow  of  a 
miserable  excuse  when,  in  1887,  they  forbade 
secular  subjects  to  be  taught  in  the  elementary 
schools  in  the  tongue  the  children  spoke  in  their 
homes.  German  had  already  been  substituted 
for  Polish  in  secondary  schools.  In  1887  the 
peasant  children  were  forced  to  do  their  lessons 
in  a  language  which  is  as  different  from  their  own 
as  English  is  from  Russian.  In  1905  another 
decree  forbade  the  children  to  learn  the  Bible 
and  the  catechism  in  Polish  and  to  say  their 
little  prayers  in  Polish.  And  the  children  refused 
to  pray  in  German.  To  them  the  language  they 
had  learnt  at  their  mothers'  knees  was  the  language 
of  the  angels.  They  were  kept  in  after  school, 
poor  mites,  and  they  refused  to  obey.  They  were 
flogged.  But  there  could  be  but  one  end  of  an 
unequal  struggle  between  the  might  of  Prussia 
and  little  children  :  there  were  tears  and  at  last 

283 


My  Slav   Friends 

submission.  But  I  have  heard  of  country  schools 
where  the  Herr  Inspector  rarely  comes,  and  where 
Polish  children  have  Polish  lessons. 

"  And  now,  dear  children/'  says  the  teacher, 
when  the  Prussian  official  does  arrive,  "  sing  one 
of  your  beautiful  songs  for  the  Herr  Inspector 
to  hear." 

And  all  those  little  hypocrites — bless  their 
sweet  souls — rise  up  and  sing  :  "  Deutschland, 
Deutschland  uber  alles." 

You  laugh.  So  did  I,  when  a  Polish  friend 
told  me  the  tale.  And  yet  it  is  a  tale  to  make 
one  cry. 

When  the  war  broke  out  and  the  Germans 
were  pretending  to  be  the  true  friends  of  the 
Poles,  the  see  of  Gnesen,  whose  archbishop  once 
had  Varshava  in  his  diocese,  was  filled  up  after 
being  vacant  for  many  years.  Why  was  it 
vacant?  Because  the  Pope  and  the  King  of 
Prussia  could  never  agree  in  the  choice  of  an 
archbishop.  The  Kaiser  required  a  German 
archbishop,  who  would  further  his  anti-Polish 
policy.  The  Popes  refused  to  sanction  the  ap- 
pointment of  a  German  to  shepherd  Poles.  And 
the  war  forced  the  Kaiser  to  yield  to  Benedict  XV 
that  which  had  been  denied  Pius  X  and  Leo  XIII. 
They  have  placed  a  Pole  in  the  see  of  Gnesen. 
They  have  played  Polish  airs  as  they  entered 
Varshava.  They  have  brought  into  that  city  the 
throne  in  which  the  Saxon  kings  of  Poland  sat. 
They  might  have  spared  their  pains.  The  Poles 

284 


My  Slav  Friends 

are    disinclined    to    weigh    in    the    balance    the 
promises  of  Kaiser  and  of  Tsar.     Their  choice  of 
allegiance  has  been  determined  by  considerations 
of  another  order.     They  have  greater  confidence 
in   the   Russian   people  than   they  have  in  the 
German  people.     It  is  the  Russian,  and  not  the 
German,    who    appreciates    Nietzsche's    saying : 
"  the   State   is   the   coldest   of   monsters/'     The 
Poles  prefer  to  trust  themselves  to  those  whose 
violence    springs    from    the    spirit    of    rebellion, 
rather  than  to  those  whose  ferocity  is  the  out- 
come  of   docility.     "  Vous  possedez   la   Cite   du 
present/'    wrote    one    of    the   most    spiritual    of 
rebellious   Russians,    addressing   the   law-abiding 
peoples  of  the  West;    "nous  sommes  les  cher- 
cheurs  de  la  Cite  de  1'avenir."     It  is  the  confid- 
ence of  the  Poles  that  this  Russian  enterprise  will 
be  successful  that  has  governed  the  decision  of 
the  majority  of  them  to  throw  in  their  lot  with  the 
Russian  people. 

"  If  nothing  else  comes  of  this  great  historical 
upheaval/'  says  Professor  Paul  Vinogradov,  writ- 
ing of  the  war,  "  but  the  reconciliation  of  the 
Russians  and  their  noble  kinsmen  the  Poles,  the 
sacrifices  which  this  crisis  demands  would  not 
be  too  great  a  price  to  pay  for  the  result."  On 
both  sides  there  are  the  clearest  indications  that 
the  reconciliation  between  the  Poles  and  the 
Russians,  between  the  greatest  Slav  race  that  is 
Latin  and  the  greatest  Slav  race  that  is  Greek, 
has  already  been  accomplished  and  that  their 

285 


My  Slav  Friends 

amity  will  be  lasting.  A  century  ago  it  was 
Napoleon,  on  the  way  to  Moscow,  who  augmented 
the  enmity  of  the  Poles  and  the  Russians,  and 
his  ill-chosen  agent  to  induce  the  Poles  to  range 
themselves  wholeheartedly  beneath  his  standard 
was  a  predecessor  of  Cardinal  Mercier  on  the 
archiepiscopal  throne  of  Malines.  It  is  now  an 
emperor,  whose  troops  are  devastating  the 
Russian  land,  that  makes  the  Poles  and  Russians 
brothers,  and  from  his  now  glorious  throne  the 
great  Archbishop  of  Malines  gives  his  benediction 
on  their  holy  compact.  The  proclamation  of 
the  Grand  Duke  to  the  Poles  was  sincere,  and  its 
ratification  by  the  Premier  in  the  name  of  the 
Tsar  has  made  it  the  pledge  of  the  Government 
and  the  throne.  But  more  important  even  than 
these  high  promises,  if  I  read  the  signs  of  the 
times  correctly,  is  the  promise  of  the  Imperial 
Duma  to  Poland.  The  temper  of  the  Duma  before 
the  war  was,  as  I  have  indicated  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  on  the  whole  conservative.  The  nation 
was  disposed  to  look  at  its  proceedings  with 
suspicion  and  to  regard  its  members  as  con- 
federates of  ministers  responsible  to  the  crown 
alone.  An  overwhelming  majority  of  its  members 
have  signified  their  determination  that  Poland 
shall  have  Home  Rule.  That  term  is  better  than 
the  one  used  in  our  newspapers,  autonomy ;  for  it 
expresses  an  idea  in  language  which  should  make 
the  least  keen-witted  of  us  reflect.  And  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  Poland  has  racial  problems 

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as  thorny  as  those  of  Ireland;  indeed,  an  exact 
British  parallel  to  the  action  of  the  Russian  Duma 
will  be  observed  when  Mr.  Bonar  Law  rises  in 
his  place  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  in  the 
name  of  his  party  declares  that  he  will  never  be 
satisfied  until  the  autonomy  of  Ireland  has  been 
effected. 

And  the  Poles  deserve  happiness,  because  they 
have  been  the  forerunners  of  Freedom  in  her 
progress  through  the  world.  Was  it  not  the 
Poles  who  welcomed  the  Jews  to  their  land,  when 
we  were  persecuting  them  and  hounding  them 
from  our  island?  Was  it  not  Catholic  Poland 
who  gave  to  the  conquered  people  of  Livonia  the 
right  to  practise  the  Lutheran  religion  without 
let  or  hindrance,  in  an  age  when  the  idea  of 
religious  toleration  had  hardly  been  conceived 
in  England?  Was  it  not  Poland  who  made 
German,  the  tongue  of  the  traditional  enemies  of 
the  Poles,  the  official  language  of  her  possessions 
in  the  Baltic  provinces?  Was  it  not  a  Polish 
queen  who  expressed  to  a  British  ambassador 
her  horror  at  the  religious  persecution  conducted 
by  Queen  Elizabeth?  Even  the  fall  of  Poland 
may  be  adduced  as  evidence  of  Polish  love  of 
Freedom.  The  autocratic  power  of  the  Musco- 
vite Tsars  made  Russia  mighty,  while  the  limita- 
tions placed  by  the  Poles  on  the  power  of  their 
sovereigns  enfeebled  the  Polish  Republic  and  led 
to  its  downfall.  They  showed  me  in  the  great 
library  of  the  Blue  Palace  in  Varshava  two  symbols 

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My  Slav   Friends 

of  the  glory  of  Poland.  One  was  a  Turkish 
banner.  It  was  taken  from  the  Turks  by  the 
Poles,  when  King  Jan  Sobieski  defeated  them 
beneath  the  walls  of  Vienna  in  1683  and  delivered 
Austria  from  enslavement  and  Europe  from 
imminent  peril.  The  other  treasure  in  Count 
Maurice  Zamoiski's  famous  library  was  a  little 
silver-salver.  On  it  were  engraved  these  words  : 
"  To  Tadeus  Kosciuszko  from  the  Inhabitants  of 
Bristol."  And  as  I  looked  at  it  I  remembered 
that  the  Polish  soldier  fought  against  us  in  the 
American  war  of  Independence.  He  had  fought 
for  his  native  land  and  lost;  but  his  passion  for 
freedom  could  not  be  stilled.  We  cannot  think 
of  him  as  a  man  who  was  our  enemy ;  rather  we 
revere  his  memory  because  he  withstood  us  when 
we  made  ourselves  the  foes  of  Freedom. 

"  The  Germans  give  us  excellent  roads/'  said 
a  Polish  lady  from  the  Duchy  of  Poznan  to  me ; 
"  they  have  made  our  country  as  neat  as  a 
counting-house  and  our  lives  as  methodical.  But 
give  me  the  wild  forests  of  Russian  Poland,  the 
bad  roads,  the  disorderliness,  the  muddle,  and  let 
me  be  free." 

If  ever  I  am  deprived  of  all  sources  of  income, 
I  shall  beg  the  money  for  the  journey  to  Poland 
and  go  there  to  end  my  days  happily  in  other 
people's  country  houses.  There  is  a  special  Polish 
word  to  denote  a  person  who  subsists  in  this 
manner. 

"  I  met  Pani  X,  and  she  asked  me  if  she 

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My  Slav  Friends 

could  come  here  for  a  fortnight/'  I  heard  a  Polish 
lady  say  to  her  husband. 

"  Rather  a  bore/'  said  the  husband. 

"  I  know/'  said  his  wife,  "but  of  course  I 
couldn't  refuse  her,  because  she  hasn't  a  kopeck, 
and  Countess  Y,  where  she  is  now,  is  going  away, 
and  Pani  Z,  where  she's  going  later,  won't  be 
home  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't  refuse  her,"  said  the 
husband,  who,  being  a  Pole,  could  not  conceive 
of  a  person  who  would  be  brutal  enough  to 
refuse  hospitality  to  a  decayed  gentlewoman  who 
demanded  it. 

And  even  if  one  is  not  impoverished,  as  I  dis- 
covered for  myself,  one  may,  if  one  wishes,  pass 
from  one  Polish  country  house  to  another  week 
after  week;  for  wherever  one  stays  neighbours 
and  visitors  beg  one  to  find  time  to  come  to  them. 
And  of  all  the  Polish  houses  in  which  I  have 
stayed  I  love  the  home  of  Jan  and  Wanda  the 
most.  I  drove  to  it  one  September  morning  over 
thirty  miles  of  the  worst  road  in  Europe,  bounding 
about  on  the  seat  of  a  motor  like  the  usual  pea 
on  a  drum.  The  chauffeur  chose  to  go  at  a  great 
pace  and  terrified  the  countryside  with  raucous 
blasts  on  an  aggressive  horn.  Peasants  got  out 
of  their  carts  and  covered  the  heads  of  their 
horses  with  their  coats  as  we  jumped  past,  and 
so  did  the  drivers  of  great  wagons,  primitive 
omnibuses  with  roofs  and  sides  of  sailcloth 
stretched  on  a  wooden  frame,  containing  innumer- 
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My  Slav   Friends 

able  Jews  in  long  black  coats,  married  Jewesses 
with  wigs,  unmarried  Jewesses  without  wigs.  In 
the  market-place  of  a  little  town  inhabited  by 
Jews  I  left  the  car  and  got  into  a  phaeton  which 
Jan  had  sent,  because  the  road  on  the  other  side 
of  the  town  was  considered  too  bad  for  motoring. 
It  was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  billowy  tract  of  sand, 
and  Jan,  as  I  told  him  afterwards,  should  have 
sent  a  camel  instead  of  a  carriage. 

"  Don't  blame  us  for  the  bad  roads/'  he  said. 
"  We  pay  the  taxes  to  keep  them  up  all  right. 
Perhaps  one  of  these  days  we  shall  get  Home  Rule ; 
and  you  may  be  certain  that,  when  we  are  allowed 
to  manage  our  own  affairs,  we  shall  have  roads 
like  billiard-tables/' 

Jan  was  waiting  on  the  doorstep  of  his  house 
to  welcome  me.  He  is  not  yet  forty,  a  tall  man 
with  broad  shoulders,  a  short  brown  beard,  and 
candid  blue  eyes.  As  I  got  out  of  the  carriage 
to  go  to  him,  I  felt  something  moist  and  warm 
settle  on  my  hand  and,  looking  down,  saw  that 
a  footman  was  kissing  it. 

"  I  hate  that,"  said  Jan,  who  had  noticed  my 
surprise  at  the  kiss;  "  but  they  will  do  it." 

And  I  was  not  surprised  that  he  disliked  the 
custom ;  for  I  noticed  that,  when  he  went  into 
the  village,  children  came  running  from  every 
direction  to  seize  his  hand  with  their  dirty  little 
paws  and  kiss  it. 

Jan's  wife,  Wanda,  was  in  the  hall.  She  is  a 
good  deal  younger  than  he  is  and  comes  of  a 

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My  Slav  Friends 

Galician  family.  She  is  one  of  those  women 
who  just  escape  being  beautiful,  but  the  sweetness 
of  her  expression  makes  her  face  very  attractive. 
Her  voice  is  soft  and  her  manner  restful.  I  can- 
not imagine  her  talking  scandal  or  using  slang. 
She  does  her  thick  black  hair  in  a  simple  way 
and  she  dresses  simply;  but  she  has  the  art, 
which  all  Polish  women  seem  to  possess,  of  always 
looking  trim.  A  Polka,  that  is  to  say  a  Polish 
woman,  almost  always  walks  beautifully — there 
is,  indeed,  a  certain  allure  in  her  walk  which  is 
extraordinarily  attractive — and  Wanda,  whether 
she  is  going  across  a  room  or  walking  through  the 
village,  always  looks  exceedingly  graceful.  Jan 
is  a  lucky  man.  Those  two  have  been  married 
some  years  and  are  still  in  love  with  each  other. 
Wanda,  as  somebody  remarked  to  me,  might  have 
done  better  for  herself;  she  was  born  into  the 
world  a  countess  and  belongs  to  the  aristocracy, 
while  her  husband  only  belongs  to  the  nobility, 
to  the  toute  petite  noblesse,  he  told  me  with 
exaggerated  humility. 

And  Wanda  welcomed  me  to  her  home  and 
took  me  to  the  drawing-room  to  be  presented  to 
her  mother-in-law,  Pani  Censki,  n/e  Countess 
Wloszczowicz  (quite  easy  to  pronounce  when  you 
know  how),  as  she  states  on  her  visiting-cards  ac- 
cording to  Polish  custom.  And  I  lost  my  heart  to 
Pani  Censki,  first,  because  she  was  a  real  old  lady 
who  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she 
was  seventy,  and  secondly,  because  she  was  utterly 

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My  Slav   Friends 

charming.  She  greeted  me  in  English,  a  tongue 
which  she  spoke  almost  perfectly,  although,  as 
I  afterwards  discovered,  she  had  never  been  in 
England.  She  was  very  little  and  wore  a  per- 
fectly plain  stuff  dress,  which  belonged  to  no 
particular  period.  Her  brown  hair,  a  little  faded, 
was  parted  in  the  middle  and  fastened  in  plaits 
at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  beautiful 
hands  and  brown  eyes,  as  innocent  and  as  beauti- 
ful as  the  eyes  of  a  girl.  I  have  never  seen  her 
lean  back  in  her  chair,  and  there  was  great  dignity 
and  also  vivacity  in  her  manner.  She  had  had 
the  advantage  of  being  young  at  a  period  when, 
even  in  England,  girls  were  taught  good  manners, 
expected  to  obey  their  parents  and  wore  book- 
muslin  and  ribbons. 

The  day  after  my  arrival  I  discovered  part  of 
the  secret  of  Pani  Censki's  charm.  There  was 
a  little  festival  at  the  house  to  mark  the  opening 
of  the  school,  which  Jan  built  and  finances,  for 
the  autumn  term.  They  called  the  school,  the 
only  one  in  the  village,  an  asile  des  en f ants.  It 
is  the  oddest  school  I  have  ever  heard  of. 

11  We  are  so  thankful  that  now  the  Government 
allows  us  to  have  these  infants'  schools  in  the 
Kingdom/'  said  Wanda;  "but  of  course  it's  a 
pity  that  we  are  not  allowed  to  teach  the  children 
to  read  and  write." 

"  Not  allowed  to  teach  them  reading  and 
writing  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  No/'  said  Wanda;  "  if  the  inspector  were  to 

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My  Slav  Friends 


find  a  reading-book  or  a  copy-book,  the  school 
would  be  shut  at  once.  And  we  are  not  allowed 
to  receive  children  who  are  over  seven/' 

"But  why?  "  I  asked. 

"  Because  the  authorities  know  perfectly  well 
that  we  should  teach  them  to  read  and  write 
Polish.  In  some  villages  the  squires  let  the 
teachers  break  the  law,  take  children  up  to  four- 
teen, and  teach  them  properly;  but  we  think 
it  best  to  obey,  and  of  course  we  hope  for  better 
times.  And  at  any  rate  it  is  not  as  bad  here  as 
in  Germany,  for  although  all  the  Government 
schools  are  Russian,  some  private  Polish  schools 
are  tolerated,  whereas  in  the  Duchy  all  the  schools 
are  German  and  no  Polish  schools  of  any  sort  are 
allowed/' 

The  better  times  for  which  Wanda  hoped  have 
come.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  before 
the  war  Russia  feared  to  offend  Germany  by  aban- 
doning her  unsuccessful  policy  of  trying  to  force 
the  Poles  to  speak  Russian  instead  of  Polish.  I 
have  often  been  told  that  Germany  informed 
Russia  that  she  would  consider  the  substitution 
of  Polish  for  Russian,  as  the  official  language  of 
the  kingdom  of  Poland,  in  the  light  of  an  unfriendly 
act.  I  have  never  been  able  to  obtain  absolute 
proof  of  the  truth  of  this  statement ;  but  it  may 
be  observed  that  it  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that 
it  would  have  been  disagreeable  to  the  Prussian 
Government  to  see  concessions  made  to  the  Poles 
of  Russia,  which  would  have  made  them  more 

293 


My  Slav  Friends 


contented  under  Russian  than  under  Prussian 
rule.  The  Poles,  who  knew  that  there  was  no 
likelihood  of  a  change  in  the  inexorable  policy 
of  Prussia,  realize  that  the  war  between  Russia 
and  Germany  has  destroyed  their  most  powerful 
enemies  in  Petrograd. 

On  the  morning  of  the  opening  of  the  school 
in  which  reading  and  writing  were  forbidden, 
the  little  hall  of  Jan's  house  became  a  chapel. 
The  doors  of  the  great  cupboard  were  thrown 
open  and  the  altar  within,  on  which  were  set  candles 
and  a  crucifix,  was  displayed.  The  infants  from 
the  school  knelt  before  it  with  their  teacher, 
Jan,  Wanda,  Pani  Censki  and  the  servants. 
A  priest  in  a  white  chasuble  entered  and  the 
Mass  began.  Jan's  mother  knelt  at  a  chair. 
She  had  a  Polish  prayer-book  and  her  lips  moved 
as  she  read  the  prayers  to  herself.  After  a  little, 
she  put  the  book  down  and  knelt  upright  with 
her  eyes  closed.  As  she  prayed  her  face  seemed 
to  change  and  to  become  young.  And  in  her 
devotion  I  found  the  secret  of  her  tranquil  charm. 

In  Poland  one  is  for  ever  being  reminded  of 
the  faith  of  the  Polish  nation.  Along  the  country 
roads  are  crosses  and  statues  of  the  saints.  The 
peasant  or  the  gentleman,  whom  one  meets  by  the 
way,  greets  one  with  the  words :  "  May  Jesus  Christ 
be  praised."  And  to  this  greeting  must  be  given 
the  reply  :  "  For  ever  and  ever."  Both  in  the 
towns  and  the  villages  the  churches  are  crowded 
at  service-time.  I  like  to  go  into  a  Polish  church 

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My  Slav  Friends 

half  an  hour  before  Mass  or  Vespers  begin,  in 
order  to  listen  to  the  people  singing  hymns. 
There  may  be  a  dozen  or  twenty  people  sitting 
in  the  pews,  and  somebody  starts  a  hymn.  A 
girl  pitches  the  tune  too  high,  or  perhaps  the  others 
do  not  know  it,  and  the  singing  collapses  forlornly, 
like  a  candle  going  out.  Then  an  old  man  with 
a  quavering  voice  begins  the  first  line  of  a  well- 
known  hymn,  the  others  take  it  up  and,  although 
the  voices  are  a  little  harsh,  they  sing  with  the 
heartiness  of  Wesleyans  at  a  prayer-meeting. 
These  popular  hymns  are  usually  very  long,  but 
everybody  seems  to  know  them  by  heart.  The 
clanging  of  a  bell  at  the  door  of  the  sacristy  is 
a  signal  that  the  amateur  service  in  the  nave 
must  end,  in  order  that  the  official  service  in  the 
chancel  may  begin.  And  as  soon  as  the  clergy 
and  choir  have  discharged  their  office,  the  Polish 
hymn-singing  begins  again.  I  know  of  nothing 
more  impressive  than  to  hear  a  Polish  congrega- 
tion sing  "  Holy  God,  Holy,  Almighty/'  at  the 
end  of  the  Sunday  morning  service.  The  thin 
Gregorian  music  of  the  Mass  has  been  sung,  and 
the  priest  kneels  before  the  altar  to  sing  the  first 
verse  of  the  hymn  that  every  Pole  seems  to  know 
by  heart.  Then  the  organ  crashes  out  the  majes- 
tic melody  and  the  congregation  sings  the  second 
verse  with  a  fervour  and  intensity  of  feeling 
that  is  profoundly  touching.  In  Varshava  good 
people  say  sadly  that  few  go  to  church.  Their 
standard  must  be  high ;  for  I  have  never  been  able 

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My  Slav   Friends 

to  find  an  empty  seat  in  one  of  the  churches  on 
a  Sunday  morning  and  have  invariably  been 
obliged  to  stand.  The  Poles  like  a  good  sermon, 
and,  although  the  town  churches  are  often  so 
crowded  on  Sunday  mornings  that  people  are 
obliged  to  stand  in  the  aisles,  packed  together  so 
closely  that  it  becomes  an  impossibility  for  one 
more  person  to  be  squeezed  into  the  church,  a 
preacher  will  take  out  his  watch,  after  speaking 
for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  look  at  it  and  calmly 
continue. 

Jan  and  Wanda  took  me  to  their  parish 
church  one  Sunday  morning.  We  went  in  a 
carriage  and  four,  not  from  pride,  but  because 
two  horses  could  not  drag  the  brougham  over 
the  abominable  road,  a  river  of  mud.  The  car- 
riage swayed  and  lurched.  Jan  cheered  his 
mother,  who  was  evidently  nervous,  although  she 
said  nothing,  by  assuring  her  that  the  carriage 
very  rarely  fell  over. 

"  Thank  God,"  she  said  when,  by  a  miracle, 
we  arrived  at  the  little  stone  church  safely. 
Some  peasants  were  putting  perfectly  clean 
goloshes  over  their  muddy  boots  before  entering. 

"  They  consider  it  very  grand  to  have  goloshes/' 
said  Jan,  :t  because  townspeople  wear  them,  so 
they  always  take  care  not  to  soil  them." 

We  sat  in  a  squire's  pew  in  the  chancel  of  the 
church,  which,  like  many  Polish  churches,  had 
windows  on  only  one  side  of  the  nave.  In  spite 
of  heavy  rain  and  mud,  the  church  was  crowded 

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My  Slav  Friends 

with     peasants,    who     sang     vernacular    hymns 
during  the   Mass   to   the   accompaniment   of   an 
organ  in  the  west  gallery  which,  like  most  organs 
in    Polish  country   churches,   was    out  of   tune; 
indeed,  I  do  not  think  it  could  have  been  tuned 
for  a  century.     The  discords  that  came  from  it 
made  me  shiver,  but,  such  is  habit,  nobody  else 
seemed  in  the  least  incommoded.     At  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  Host  a  dozen  men  and  women  knelt 
in  the  aisle  with  flaming  torches  in  their  hands. 
It  is  patriotism,  as  well  as  faith,  that  sustains 
the  religious  fervour  of  the  Polish  people.     No 
Church  has  a  juster  claim  to  call  itself  a  National 
Church  than  the  Polish.     It  has  been  a  refuge 
to  the  afflicted  in  the  darkest  hours  of  Poland's 
tragic  history.     The  clergy  have  been  a  powerful 
force  to  keep  alive  the  spirit  of  the  nation  during 
a  century  and  a  half  of  unparalleled  misfortune, 
and  the  Pope  has  been  the  only  sovereign  who 
has  dared  to  raise  his  voice  in  defence  of  the 
Polish  people,  since  Europe  sanctioned  the  par- 
celling  out    of   Poland   to    Russia,    Austria   and 
Prussia    a   century    ago.     In    Russia   the   words 
Orthodox  and  Russian  are  interchangeable,  and 
in  Poland  the  word   Catholic   is  a  synonym   for 
Polish.     The   persecution   of   Catholicism  in  the 
Russian  empire  was    not  due  to  dislike  of   the 
dogmas  of  Rome  so  much  as  to  the  desire  of 
the   Government   to   limit   the   influence   of  the 
Poles.     Jan's    mother    would   sometimes   tell  us 
tales  of  those  bad  days  that  have  gone  for  ever, 

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My  Slav   Friends 

when  we  were  in  Wanda's  little  drawing-room 
after  dinner.  She  spoke  very  quickly  in  French, 
and  as  she  told  of  the  sufferings  of  Poland  her 
voice  sometimes  trembled  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"  I  used  to  think/'  she  began  one  night,  "  that 
the  martyrs  were  different  from  us,  until  I  got 
to  know  some;  then  I  discovered  that  they  had 
the  same  faults  as  other  people,  although  their 
faith  sustained  them  in  the  midst  of  persecution." 

"  But  how  could  you  know  martyrs?  "  I  asked. 

u  I  will  tell  you/'  she  said.  "  The  last  persecu- 
tion in  Poland  began  in  1872.  The  Government 
had  determined  to  stamp  out  the  Uniats,  who, 
as  no  doubt  you  know,  are  Catholics  permitted 
by  Rome  to  use  the  Eastern  liturgy  and  to  have 
a  married  clergy.  Most  of  the  Uniats  in  the 
east  of  the  kingdom  of  Poland  were  Little  Russians, 
but  as  they  were  Catholics  they  considered  them- 
selves Poles.  The  Government  thought  it  would 
be  an  easy  matter  to  induce  them  to  become 
Orthodox,  as  the  Uniat  services  are  almost 
the  same  as  the  Russian  services,  and  that 
peasants  would  not  care  whether  they  were  under 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  Holy  See  or  of  the  Holy 
Synod.  It  was  part  of  the  policy  of  russifica- 
tion.  I  was  brought  up  in  a  part  of  Poland  where 
almost  all  the  peasants  were  Uniats  and,  as 
there  was  no  church  in  the  village,  my  father 
built  a  church  of  the  Uniat  rite  instead  of  a  church 
of  the  Latin  rite  to  which  we  ourselves  belonged. 
On  Sunday  mornings  we  used  to  go  the  Liturgy, 

298 


My  Slav  Friends 

but  the  priest  communicated  us  with  Hosts 
consecrated  by  a  Latin  priest,  who  visited  the 
church  occasionally  to  say  the  Mass  of  our  rite. 
One  February  morning  soldiers  arrived  in  the 
village,  and  the  officer  commanding  them  told 
the  peasants  that  the  Tsar  wished  them  to  become 
Orthodox.  An  old  man,  speaking  in  the  name 
of  the  villagers,  replied  that  they  were  the  most 
loyal  subjects  of  the  Tsar,  but  that  they  must 
refuse  to  abandon  the  religion  which  their  fathers 
and  grandfathers  had  professed  before  them. 
Nothing  that  the  officer  could  say  would  alter 
their  decision,  and  an  Orthodox  priest  who 
harangued  them  had  no  greater  success.  Then 
the  soldiers  resorted  to  force.  Not  to  my  dying 
day  shall  I  forget  the  shrieks  of  those  unhappy 
people  as  they  were  being  flogged.  Some  were 
made  to  carry  blocks  of  ice  up  and  down  the  road, 
hour  after  hour,  until  they  dropped  from  cold  and 
exhaustion.  But  no  torture  would  make  them 
deny  their*  faith.  Finally,  a  number  of  men  were 
arrested  and  sent  to  Lublin  to  be  imprisoned  and 
the  rest  were  registered  as  Orthodox.  Then  began 
the  great  religious  strike.  The  priest  of  the 
church  had  been  turned  out  and  an  Orthodox 
priest  installed  in  his  place;  but  the  peasants 
refused  to  go  to  church.  Many  of  them  were 
unable  to  obtain  the  sacraments  for  years.  For 
instance,  the  nurse  Wanda  has  for  her  baby,  a 
most  pious  woman,  was  unable  to  make  her 
Easter  communion  for  eight  years,  until  at  last 

299 


My  Slav  Friends 

she  managed  to  do  so  unnoticed  by  the  police 
in   a   crush   of  pilgrims   at   Chenstochowa.     The 
Latin  clergy  could  not  help  these  poor  people, 
because    if    it    was    discovered    that    they    had 
administered  the  sacrament  to  nominal  members 
of    the   Orthodox   Church   they   were   exiled   to 
Siberia.     My  sister    devoted  her    life  to  helping 
the    Uniats.     She    had    tracts    printed,    giving 
directions  for  baptizing  children  and  for  preparing 
the  sick  for  death,  and  she  used  a  good  old  Jew  as 
her  agent  to  distribute  them.     For  nearly  thirty- 
five  years  the  peasants  of  the  east  of  the  kingdom 
baptized  their  own  children,  buried  their  dead, 
and  the  young  people  either  went  into  Galicia 
to  be  married  by  a  priest  or  had  their  unions 
blessed  by  the  village  elder.     Sometimes,  however, 
Jesuits  came  from  Galicia,  disguised  as  pedlars, 
said  Mass  in  the  forests,  administered  the  sacra- 
ments,  and  blessed  marriages.     I   was   once   at 
a  Mass  said  by  one  of  these  brave  priests.     He 
was  dressed  in  a  peasant's  frock  and,  instead  of 
the  usual  vestments,  he  had  round  his  neck  a  tiny 
stole  of  narrow  ribbon.     Pius  IX  had  sets  of  very 
small  altar  vessels,  which  could  be  easily  hidden 
at  the  bottom  of  a  pack  of  combs  and  laces,  made 
for  these  priests.     They  asked  him  to  send  relics 
of  the  early  martyrs  to  encourage  the  peasants. 
He  did  so,  but  when  the  request  was  made  he 
said  :     '  Why  should  I   send    relics  to  Poland  ? 
you  have  only  to  take  up  handfuls  of  the  earth, 
it  is  drenched  with  the  blood  of  martyrs/ 

300 


My  Slav  Friends 

"  The  work  of  these  disguised  priests  was  very 
dangerous  and  many  of  them  were  arrested  and  im- 
prisoned. There  was  one  who  went  to  my  sister 
for  advice,  and  after  he  had  been  in  the  country 
some  months  the  suspicions  of  the  police  were 
roused;  they  discovered  that  he  spent  a  great 
deal  of  his  time  in  prayer,  examined  his  pedlar's 
pack,  discovered  his  chalice  and  sent  him  to  the 
Citadel  in  Varshava.  They  knew  that  he  had 
often  been  at  my  sister's  house,  so  they  went  to 
her  and  accused  her  of  helping  him.  She  refused 
to  admit  that  she  knew  him  and  then  the  police  hit 
on  a  plan  for  making  her  guilt  clear.  The  police- 
inspector  took  a  photograph  of  the  Jesuit  out 
of  his  pocket  and  showed  it  to  her  little  boy, 
a  child  of  twelve,  who  had  often  seen  the  priest 
and  did  not  know  that  he  was  not  a  genuine 
pedlar. 

"'Now,  my  little  man/  said  the  inspector; 
'  you  have  often  seen  this  man  talking  to  your 
mother,  haven't  you?  ' 

"  You  can  imagine  how  frightened  my  sister 
was,  for  she  was  certain  that  the  child  would 
recognize  the  photograph  and  that  she  would  be 
packed  off  to  Siberia  without  further  ado.  The 
boy  looked  at  the  picture  a  moment  and  then  he 
said  :  '  No,  I  don't  remember  ever  having  seen 
that  man.'  It  was  really  like  a  miracle. 

"  Some  months  later  my  sister  came  to  me  and 
asked  me  to  lend  her  two  hundred  roubles.  She 
was  very  poor,  because  her  husband's  estates 

301 


My  Slav  Friends 

had  been  confiscated  after  the  rebellion  of  '63. 
She  wanted  the  money  in  order  to  bribe  an  official 
in  the  Citadel  to  arrange  the  Jesuit's  escape.  I 
gave  her  the  money  and  then  forgot  all  about 
the  matter.  A  few  weeks  afterwards  I  was  going 
to  Krak6w  and  travelled  in  the  same  railway- 
carriage  as  a  priest  and  a  peasant.  The  priest 
and  I  talked  about  the  persecution,  and,  when 
we  had  crossed  the  frontier,  the  peasant  suddenly 
said  :  '  I  am  a  priest.  I  have  been  imprisoned 
in  the  Citadel  of  Varshava  for  the  last  six  months. 
I  find  that  somebody  has  bribed  an  official  to 
let  me  escape  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea 
who  my  benefactor  is.  I  wish  I  knew,  because 
I  want  to  thank  him/  Now  wasn't  that  an 
extraordinary  coincidence?' 

"  And  did  you  tell  him?  "  asked  somebody. 

"  I  didn't  think  it  worth  while,"  said  Pani 
Censki. 

It  was  almost  a  relief  when  she  ended  her  tales  ; 
for  the  little  old  lady,  usually  so  quiet  and  so 
restful,  spoke  with  such  fire  and  emotion  that  she 
brought  tears  to  my  certain  knowledge  into  at 
least  one  pair  of  unaccustomed  eyes  that  night. 

And  why  repeat  these  tales  of  oppression  now  ? 
Because  they  show  the  fine  stuff  of  which  the 
Polish  peasantry  is  made  and  because  they  show 
the  glory  of  the  sovereign  who  gave  his  sub- 
jects religious  liberty  in  1905.  At  Konstantinov, 
a  village  in  the  east  of  Poland,  I  saw  for  myself 
the  happiness  that  that  splendid  reform  had 

302 


My  Slav  Friends 

given.  When  the  good  news  came,  the  whole 
countryside  went  mad  with  joy.  For  thirty-five 
years  they  had  been  debarred  from  practising 
their  religion  and  had  been  perpetually  told  that 
it  was  their  duty  to  believe  as  the  Tsar  believed 
and  to  pray  as  he  prayed.  They  were  so  be- 
wildered at  the  change  made  by  the  imperial 
manifesto  that  it  was  at  first  difficult  to  persuade 
them  that  the  Tsar  had  not  become  a  Catholic. 
In  those  days  they  put  up  a  wooden  church,  like 
a  great  barn  with  an  earthen  floor.  The  women 
in  those  parts  weave  tartan-stuff  for  their  petti- 
coats and  they  had  hung  the  sanctuary  of  that 
rude  chapel  and  the  pulpit  with  this  cloth.  The 
place  seemed  to  me  more  beautiful  than  a  high 
cathedral. 

Near  the  wooden  chapel,  workmen  were  building 
a  church  of  red  brick  and  stone  in  the  beautiful 
Vistula-Gothic  style.  The  squire  had  given  the 
ground  and  the  material,  and  the  labourers  were 
giving  their  time.  The  deep  foundations  had 
been  dug,  they  told  me,  in  a  single  day ;  for  three 
thousand  persons  had  flocked  to  the  place  with 
picks  and  spades  to  do  the  work.  While  some 
dug,  the  others  stood  by  and  sang  hymns.  It 
was  a  time  of  holy  junketing  in  the  east  of  the 
Kingdom.  The  Bishop  of  Lublin  passed  through 
the  countryside  in  triumph,  accompanied  by 
hundreds  of  Polish  gentlemen  and  peasants  on 
horseback.  Never  has  there  been  such  a  day  in 
Janov,  the  neighbouring  town,  as  the  day  of  the 

303 


My  Slav   Friends 

^ 

prelate's  visit.  Those  who  could  not  get  into 
the  church  sang  hymns  and  listened  to  sermons 
in  the  open  air.  Even  the  Jews  rejoiced  with 
their  Christian  brethren,  for  they  had  sympathized 
with  them  in  the  days  of  persecution.  Exiled 
Uniats,  who  had  returned  from  Siberia  when 
they  heard  of  the  Tsar's  great  reform,  sat  with 
gentlemen  at  a  luncheon  given  in  honour  of  the 
Bishop. 

"  When  we  had  ended  speechmaking,"  said  a 
Polish  acquaintance,  a  typical  man-of-the-world, 
"  an  old  peasant  came  and  stood  before  the 
Bishop  and  asked  leave  to  speak.  He  told 
us  of  the  sufferings  he  and  his  companions  had 
endured,  and  spoke  of  the  joy  they  had  felt 
in  being  allowed  to  suffer  for  Christ.  And  I  can 
assure  you  that  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  had 
not  tears  in  his  eyes  when  that  old  man  had 
ended/' 

The  Uniat  church  had  been  destroyed  in  the 
kingdom;  hence  these  peasants  were  obliged  to 
join  the  Latin  rite.  They  did  not  mind;  they 
had  suffered  for  principles  and  not  for  ceremonies. 

Jan  had  not  been  a  martyr;  in  point  of 
fact,  according  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been 
a  harum-scarum  sort  of  a  fellow  until,  as  he  told 
me,  he  was  converted  by  a  sister-of-charity  who 
nursed  him  during  an  illness. 

"  And  if  there  is  one  thing  I  believe  in,"  he 
said,  "  although  I  am  no  saint,  it  is  Christianity." 

In  Poland   a   country   gentleman's  fortune   is 

304 


My   Slav  Friends 

usually  in  his  fields  and  forests.  Jan  had  studied 
farming  and  forestry  scientifically.  He  showed 
me  a  field  of  baby  pine-trees,  planted  out  like 
cabbages.  They  were  to  be  transferred  to  places 
in  the  forest  when  trees  had  been  cut  down. 

"  We  shall  cut  down  these  trees  in  forty  years' 
time,"  he  would  say ;  "  that  little  fellow  over  there 
will  not  be  ready  for  market  for  another  sixty 
years." 

And  in  these  days  I  often  wonder  what  has 
happened  to  Jan  and  Wanda  and  their  little 
son;  for  their  pleasant  home  was  in  a  country- 
side that  has  been  swept  by  the  war.  They 
were  not  rich,  and  they  are  possibly  penniless 
now.  And  for  Wanda  I  am  more  sorry  than 
even  for  Jan,  because  she  came  of  a  Galician 
family  and  her  brothers  must  be  forced  to  serve 
in  the  Austrian  army.  And  both  she  and  Jan 
had  cousins  who  were  subjects  of  Prussia.  The 
Poles  are  forced  to  engage  in  a  fratricidal  war. 
Their  country  is  devastated  and  their  moral 
sufferings  are  more  profound  than  those  of  any 
other  belligerent  people.  But  through  suffering 
they  are  passing  to  freedom  and  future  happiness. 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Tsar  and  of  the  Russian  people 
that  the  Polish  nation  shall  conserve  its  identity 
and  that  reparation  shall  be  made  to  it  for  the 
sufferings  of  the  past.  That  Poland  may  be 
united  again  is  the  prayer  of  every  Pole. 

One  Easter  eve  in  Petrograd  I  went  to  the 
Polish  church  of  St.  Catharine  for  the  midnight 
x  305 


My  Slav   Friends 

service  the  Poles  call  the  Resurrection.  It  was 
my  custom  to  go  to  St.  Isaac's  cathedral  on  that 
night  with  Anna  Ivanovna  and  her  family.  But 
that  year  I  was  not  in  the  mood  to  be  a  spectator 
of  a  magnificent  and  inspiring  ceremony  which 
I  could  only  partly  understand.  I  had  a  longing 
for  the  Latin  prayers  of  the  West,  and  so  I  went 
to  worship  with  the  Poles.  St.  Catharine's  is  a 
magnificent  church,  built  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
and  there  is  a  great  central  dome.  I  elbowed 
my  way  through  a  crowd  of  people,  who  filled 
the  spacious  vestry  because  there  was  no  room 
for  them  in  the  church,  pushed  open  a  door  and 
went  into  the  sanctuary  where  a  couple  of 
hundred  men  were  standing  between  the  chancel 
rail  and  the  steps  of  the  altar.  The  vast  space 
beneath  the  dome  and  in  the  transepts  was  crowded 
with  people  packed  closely  together.  Beyond, 
in  the  nave,  there  was  a  double  row  of  people 
squeezed  into  each  pew.  The  voice  of  a  priest 
chanting  prayers  came  from  the  chapel  in  which 
the  white  Host  shone  above  the  sepulchre  of  the 
Lord.  And  the  priest  came  forth  with  his  minis- 
ters, bearing  the  Host  in  a  silver  monstrance. 
Then  went  up  from  the  multitude  in  the  church 
the  triumphal  shout  of  the  hymn  of  the  Resur- 
rection. They  sang  like  men  and  women  who 
would  storm  the  shining  gates  of  heaven.  And 
it  seemed  to  me  that  their  celebration  of  the 
Saviour's  victory  over  death  was  also  a  prayer. 
They  praised  the  Almighty  for  the  Resurrection 

306 


My  Slav  Friends 


of  His  Son  and  they  prayed  for  the  Resurrection 
of  their  country.  And  their  prayer  is  heard. 
Poland  has  been  crucified  and  has  lain  in  the  tomb 
of  forget  fulness.  The  divine  summons  sounds 
above  the  din  of  battle :  "  Come  forth/' 


307 


INDEX 


Actors  :  Mme.  Geltzer,  90  sq. ; 

of     the     Moscow     artistic 

theatre,     93     sq. ;      Mme. 

Kommisarzhevskaya,    129 ; 

Mme.      Bernhardt,       131 ; 

Mme.   Duse,    131 ;    of  the 

imperial  theatres,  132 ;    of 

a  circus,  209 ;  Nijinski,  219 

Alexander  II :  117,  161 

Alexander  Nevsky,  St.  :  198 

Alexis    Mikhailovitch,    Tsar : 

34,73 

Anglican  Church  :  relations  of, 
with  Orthodox,  7,  18  sq. ; 
attitude  to  image-worship, 
77,  212-13 ;  Russian  mem- 
bers of,  161 ;  Jewish  con- 
verts of,  162 

Anglo- Russian  Relations  :  in 
sixteenth  century,  20  sq. ; 
in  time  of  Peter  I,  35  sq. ; 
need  of  sincerity,  59 ;  basis 
of,  137  sq. 

Anna  Yaroslavna,  Queen  of 
France  :  n  sq. 

Anthony,  Metropolitan :   3 

Artzybashev  :  48  sq. 

Asceticism  :  88  sq. 

Azyme :  15 

Ballet :  Tchaikovsky's  Sleep- 
ing Beauty,  22 ;  Russian 
view  of,  91 ;  Nijinski  in, 
219 


Baltic' Provinces  :   religion  in, 

69,  161 
Balzac  :  220 
Baptists :  235 
Baring,  Maurice :  63 
Benedict  XV :  284 
Bernhardt,  Sarah :  131 
Best,  Robert;^ 
Bielostok :  254,  260 
Breshkovsky,   Catharine :    77, 

99 

Bristol:  288 


:  10 

Burnet,  Bishop  :  36 
Byelinsky,  the  critic  :  115,  118 

Cabmen": "99,  191,^263 
Catharine  1 :  39,  175 
Catharine  II :  40 
Catholic  Church :  163,  passim. 
Cerularius,  Michael :    13,  18, 

182 

Chancellor,  Richard  :  20  sq. 
Chaucer :  21 
Chelm,  Bishop  of:   168 
Constantinople :  ecclesiastical 

relations    with    Rome,    13, 

17;  with  Russia,  13 
Constitution,    Russian :     107, 

169  sq. 

Cranmer,  Archbishop  :  18 
Cross:    sign  of,  76  sq.,  264; 

controversies  about,  181 
Czenstochowa :  213 


309 


Index 


Denmark :  10 
Diet,  Prussian  :  5,  280 
Dmowski,  Roman  :   5,  275-6 
Dolgorukov,  Prince  Peter  :  140 
Dostoievsky  :   on  the  Russian 

genius,  6;  his  pity,  118 
Dress :  35,  148 
Drunkenness  :   27,  107,  128 
Duma,  Imperial :   opening  of 

first,   i  sq. ;    how  created, 

169 ;    1915  programme  of, 

176;   spirit  of,  286 
Duse,  Eleanor  a  :  131 

Edward  VI :  20 

Edward  VII :  141  sq. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  :  29,  214,  287 

Embroidery  :  28 

Eulogius,  Bishop   of  Chelm  : 

168 
Exeter :  9 

Festival :  229 
Finland :  69,  176 
France :  n,  12 

Gabriel,  St.  :  204 
Geltzer,  Mme.  :  90  sq. 
Goutchkov  :  once  president  of 

the  Duma  :  73 
Gregory  VII :  14 
Griboyedov  :  116 
Grunewald,  Battle  of :  252 
Gytha :  9sq.,  21 

Haldane,  Lord :  139 
Hamilton,  Miss  :  33  sq. 
Holy  Synod  :  153,  177 
Homilies :  212-13 
Hypocrisy,  British  :  152  sq. 


Iberian  chapel :  72 
Ice,  Battle  of :  198 


Iconoclasts :  215,  217 

Icons:  of  Christ,  2,  66;  dis- 
played everywhere,  6,  71 ; 
of  the  Trinity,  16;  discus- 
sion of,  66  sq.,  212  sq. ;  of 
Iberian  Virgin,  72;  atti- 
tude of  infidels  to,  72,  74; 
Ostrobramska,  239  sq. 

Infidelity  :  156 

Irish,  the  :  46,  277 

Ivan  the  Terrible  :  22,  27 

Jagellon,  Prince :  249 

Janov  :  303 

Jesuits :  247,  301 

Jews:  156,  162,  241,  244, 
255,  257,  287,  290,  300,  304 

John  of  the  Cross,  St.  :  97, 
221 

Journalists :  Mr.  Suvorin, 
143-4;  Mr.  Igorov,  144; 
Mr.  Pilenko,  144;  pro- 
vincial, 196 

Karamzin  :  10 
Kiev :  9,  10,  n,  212,  216 
Kluchevsky,  Professor :  23 
Konstantinov  :  302 
Kosciuszko,  Tadeus  :   288 
Kostomarov  :  227-8 
Kovalevsky,  Maxim  :  140 

Labour  :  45,  171  sq. 

Leo  XIII :    17,  284 

Leo  the  Isaurian  :  5,  215,  217 

Letters,  Men  of :  94  sq. 

Lettish  Language :  249 

Liberty  :  love  of,  137 ;  social, 

147 ;    moral,  151 ;   struggle 

for,    160;     religious,    160, 

302 
Literature,  English :   Russia's 

knowledge  of,  38,  41,  47  sq. 


310 


Index 


Lithuania  :  239  sq. 

London,  Bishop  of:  7sq.,  17 

Lublin  :  299,  303 

Maeterlinck  :  131 
Malines  :  286 
Marriage  :  158 
Martyrs :     of   art,    93 ;     Old 
Believers,  101 ;  Uniats,  298 
Mary,  Queen  :  25,  27,  29 
Matvieev,  Artemon  :  33 
Mavor,  Professor  :   117  n. 
Mercier,  Cardinal :  286 
Merejkovsky  :  159 
Methodists  :  214  sq. 
Miliukov,  Paul :  140 
Morality,   Russian  views  of: 

153  sq. 
Moscow  :   German  suburb  of, 

30 ;    British  colony  in,  31 ; 

Gate  of  the   Resurrection, 

72 ;     Iberian    chapel,    72 ; 

as   third   Rome,   74;     and 

Napoleon,  108 
Mstislav  Vladimir ovitch  :  10 

Napoleon  :  107,  286 
Narishkin,  Natalia  :  33-4 
Nesselrode,  Count :  161 
Niccea,  Second  Council  of:6, 75 
Nicholas    II :     opening    first 
Duma,     i,    4;     and    holy 
icons,  72,  73  ;  and  religious 
liberty,   164  sq. ;    and  the 
constitution,  169 ;  titles  of, 
205 

Nietzsche :  285 
Nijinski :  219 
Novgorod :  10,  13,  16,  103 
Nuremberg :  12 

Old  Believers  :  17,  101  sq. 
Orthodox  Church  :   7  passim. 


Peasants :  self-sacrifice  of, 
101 ;  and  land  question, 
172,  186 ;  religion  of,  227 

Peipus,  Lake  :  197-8 

Peter  the  Great :  hut  in 
Petrograd,  2 ;  his  icon, 
3  sq. ;  and  Princess  Anne, 
18 ;  reforms  of,  34,  41  sq. ; 
Bishop  Burnet's  opinion 
of,  36;  parties  arranged 
by,  129 

Petrograd :  contrast  with 
Berlin,  45 

Poles,  the :  link  between 
Russia  and  the  West,  29; 
their  religion,  161  sq., 
239  sq. 

Popes  :  send  relics  to  Kiev, 
ii ;  favour  Greek  monks, 
13  ;  and  the  Poles,  284 

Press,  the  :  47  sq. 

Prussian  language,  249 

Pskov  :  41,  191  sq. 

Rasputin  :  55  sq. 
Reactionary  Party  :  141 
Rennet,  Frederick :  61 
Revel :  142 

Revolutionists:  97  sq.,  198 
Rheims  :  9,  12 
Rings,  Episcopal :  7-9,  16 
Rostoptchin  :  108 
Russo-Polish  relations :    101, 

285 

St.  Omer :  10 

Schism     between     East     and 

West :  13  sq. 
Scotch,  the  :  31  sq. 
Seraphim,  St.  :   89,  237 
Serfs:  113  sq. 
Shaw,  Bernard :  48 
Simeon  Stylites,  St.  :  89 


Index 


Sologub  :  134 
Soloviev,  S.  M.  :  228 
Stolypin  :  143 
Suvorin :  143 

Tchaikovsky  :  22 

Tertullian  :  76  .j 

Theatre :  Moscow  artistic, 
93 ;  Alexander,  132  ;  Kom- 
misarzhevskaya's,  133 ; 
Marinsky,  151 

Theodore  of  the  Studium,  St.  : 

215 

Toleration  :  160  sq. 
Tuberville,  George  .'27 
Turgeniev  :  113,  139 

Uniats :  298  sq. 

Varshava  :   101,  162,  262  sq. 
Vilna :  239  sq. 


Vinogradov,  Paul :  285 
Vladimir  Monomach  :  9  sq. 
Vogne,  Vicomte  de  :  113 
Fy<z2ews&y,   Prince  Andrew  : 
44 

Waliszewski :  36 
Warsaw :  see  Varshava. 
Wedekind :  134 
Wilde,  Oscar :  48,  134 
William  II,  Kaiser  :  suitable 

prison  for,  45  ;  visit  to  the 

Tsar,  141 ;  Polish  policy  of, 

282,  284 
Winnington-Ingram,  Dr.  :  see 

London. 
Witte,  Count :  54 

Yaroslav  the  Wise :   9,  n,  38 

Zemstvo  Congress  :  169 
Zoe  Palceologus :  12 


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